


The Dragon's Soldier

by twistedthicket1



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Action/Adventure, Dragonlock, Dragons, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Romance, Smauglock, War, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:43:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 159,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the dragons "came out" to the rest of the world, nobody expected the resulting War that broke out between Humans and Beasts. Both sides afraid and suspicious of each other, Humans drove Dragons into slavery, imprisoning them and turning their children into weapons for the military. Forced into hiding, many Dragons disguised themselves as Human and kept their secrets locked away, awaiting for the day when the royal blood line long since vanished would once again reappear and lay waste to the Humans that oppressed them.</p><p>John is a reluctant soldier in the Queen's Army, hoping to pay his medical school degree with three years of service. He's just been told to pick out a Dragon from the Kennels to train and serve beside in the War in Afghanistan. More than a little afraid and yet fascinated by the creatures, he just hopes he doesn't end up barbequed...</p><p>Sherlock Holmes can't remember his past, but one thing is for certain: He is never going to become some Human's pet. However John Watson doesn't exactly seem like the typical Human.</p><p>Can Dragon and Man really get along? Or even more, become friends?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface~ To Remember, To Forget

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Драконий наездник (The Dragon's Soldier)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1943439) by [lyapsik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyapsik/pseuds/lyapsik)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】The Dragon's Soldier 龙的战士](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5982231) by [amberjune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberjune/pseuds/amberjune), [Chloesit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chloesit/pseuds/Chloesit), [twistedthicket1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1)



> hai! :3 I've had this plot bunny festering in my head for a while now.  
> If you think I should continue it please let me know via kudo/comment! thanks a bunch!
> 
> also pointing out any editing mistakes make my life a thousand times less stressful ^_^
> 
> Here we go!
> 
> *edit- Do you guys think sherlock should be an english, chinese or northern dragon? opinions welcome!

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Dragon (Noun):** _A dragon is a legendary creature, typically with serpentine or reptilian traits that features in many different cultures. Since the dawn of time, Dragons have been the subject of both legend and speculation, deriving from many different traditions and originally thought to have been of mythical descent. However with modern science, the "Dragon Gene" has been proven to be a mutation of the genetic strand of a Human, allowing the subject to "Shift" into a beast-like state at will. (See page 104 for more details on "Shifting"). Though many attempts have been made to "cure" subjects of the Dragon disease, it appears to be a genetic condition. As it is today there exists no verifiable treatment or cure for the ailment. There exists many types or "species" of Dragons, though it is dependable upon the subject's living environment and heritage as to which they will transform into. The three main categories are:  
_

_English.  
_

_Chinese.  
_

_Northern.  
_

_It is a life-long condition. Little is known as to the reasons why it exists, though there is speculation on it being the next evolutionary step in the Human chain. (for more information on the theory, see section B page 338)_

 

 

He doesn't know a life outside of The Collars and The Chains.

A part of him wonders if it's where he was born. What he was born in.

He knows it isn't however. Knows because if he was then he'd be like the others that were born in The Kennels. Savage beasts, unable to think past the next meal passed to them in their cages and unable to Shift into their Human forms. Also he has a name to call himself, unlike the ones born inside the enclosure of steel walls and wire mesh that holds them all. Sometimes if he closes his eyes he thinks he can hear somebody calling to him using it. Softly speaking it in his ear. Then he wakes up and he snarls at his own visions, because they leave reality tinged with such hopelessness and disappointment. He curls his wings about him then, blocking out the harsh lights that make his sensitive eyes dazzled and tries to sleep. Tries to remember what sleep felt like not laced with aching wounds and all-absorbing hunger. He tries to recall what grass felt like under his feet, and what skin felt like as it brushed against his face in a caress. It helps the four walls of his Kennel dissolve, fade away as he retreats into the Mind-Palace of his imaginings. What he _thinks_ he should remember.

He thinks the sun would be warm.

Snow would be cold.

Somehow, that seems right. He feels like he once held snow in his hands.

Felt sun on his cheeks.

He thinks rain would be wet, as logically the water they sometimes douse him with to clean him was wet. Cold too, probably.

But other than basic, instinctive things, he feels like he is missing a piece. A chunk of a puzzle he has no hope of getting back because the Kennel takes it away, as does the whining and clawing of his people around him. It drills its' way into his mind, and it takes everything he has inside not to howl with them. Not to lose himself in the animal that lingers just under the shell of a Human skin.

 

Sherlock Holmes wants to forget.

And yet in order to forget, he knows a part of him needs to remember.

 

****

He never intended to join the Army.

In fact, John Hamish Watson had originally as a child wanted nothing to do with fighting. As a small boy, he had been the kid in his little run-down neighbourhood to avoid anything to do with a scuffle, having seen one too many between his old man and his Mother for him to have the taste for blood. He grew up instead often pulling his older sister out of fights, like when Harry was younger and had attacked Timothy Banks for calling her ugly. Later, he had protected her from the same Timothy Banks when he had pulled a knife on her when he found out she was shagging his sister. Maybe that was why John originally developed a Healer's complex, because he watched so many people get hurt in the little ghetto district he had grown up in. Wounds were a constant thing, a telling passage of time, and John found a comfort in being the one who fixed them. There was a kind of completion in sewing together a cut, and a solace found in taking care of the ill as they lay before you. It was the knowledge that you were _helping_ someone, the faith that came in the steady rhythm of your own hands working to fix things. Some nights it was the only thing that kept John from going absolutely insane as he heard the fighting going on downstairs, or watched his Father drink himself into oblivion.

 

At least if people decided to ruin their own lives, John couldn't be held responsible this way. Because if he did his best to heal them and they still didn't make it, at least he had tried.

 

No, the Army only called him originally because like many young people growing up in the Slum Districts, he was dirt poor and couldn't afford his next meal let alone an expensive Medical Degree. Studying and scholarships could only get you so far, and though John was an avid student and a hard worker, he still only just managed to scrape by as most of the time he couldn't afford the text books or even new pencils and pens. Really going to War seemed like the only option, especially with the way it was advertised everywhere with posters and propaganda signs that decorated the brick walls of the Slums better than the greying paint underneath them. In fact it was during Career Day, when he was checking out the military booth stand that he first laid eyes on one of them.

 

A creature he had heard about and yet never seen.

He remembered the creature even years later, mostly because if it weren't for the leather collar circling her neck, he wouldn't have thought her to be anything other than Human at all.

He and his friend, Mike Stamford had been both eyeing the table all afternoon. Mike not because of a money issue since he had a fairly wealthy Grandmother, but because he had a childlike enthusiasm for War that only showed in people who had never actually experienced a battle before in their lives. He and John had gotten along well since meeting last year in the same biology class, and they both had slightly destructive siblings. Though Jerome had a drug problem instead of an alcohol one like Harry.

 

The man that had stood at the table with all of the military pamphlets and sign-up regulations and rules was a burly man, someone who when John looked at him he was reminded immediately of being shaped a bit like a barrel. However most of it was muscle, and there were definite signs about him of a man who had seen fighting in the scars on his arms and the tan of his skin. He held her chain lazily, as if it was more for show than anything else. John's eyes were immediately drawn to the woman beside him.

Right away he knew she was a Dragon.

 

Everyone could tell, the collar about her neck was a dead give-away. It was industrial, metal and leather, and it was hooked to the leash the man held as if he stood a chance at stopping something like a Dragon from killing someone if he had a mind. Of course, the real security was the fact that John could see the electrical glow flashing in the ring about her pale throat, threatening shocks if she were to suddenly lash out and attack for some reason. Her eyes were as pale as a sky just before Dawn crests over a horizon, and her cheeks were high and angular. She had silver-blonde hair cascading down over her shoulders, and it had a slight wave as if suggesting it was used to being braided for battle. Rosebud lips were pressed into an unreadable line, and her pale skin was in stark contrast to the green-brown military uniform she wore. Upon feeling John's gaze upon her, she stared back. The young man saw in those eyes an empty sort of calculation, and he felt something in the back of his neck crawl upon those pale irises meeting his own. Though her face was blank, John got the distinct impression that she was not at ease. Her limbs may have been slack, but there was a feral way about her that seemed to make most people either eye her with curiosity as he had done or shrink away in fear.

 

She was beautiful, and yet John was also aware from the start that she was highly deadly.

In the end, she had been what had drew him to the table.

 

The man introduced himself as Captain Jeoffrey Briggs, and he immediately noticed the two teens' obvious fascination with the specimen beside him. He grinned in an easy sort of way, and though his voice was gruff like he was used to shouting orders, he was quite friendly.

“Britain's finest right here. This is my Damelia. She's an English Dragon, which ya can tell by the colourin'. The eastern ones tend to have darker hair, though all of 'em have the fair complexion. I've had her since I was sixteen, when I first joined the ranks.”

 

Damelia didn't acknowledge them other than the way all slaves were forced to. She bowed once lowly then straightened, apparently preferring to observe the hordes of students for any sign of danger than to talk to two gangly strangers ogling her like she was property. John immediately felt a little embarrassed for being so obvious, but it was hard _not_ to stare. Not just because of her beauty, which was definitely a factor, but because of her unnatural _stillness._ She stood with an utter frigidity about her, not a single muscle twitching in even the tiniest way.

 

“How long do you serve until you get one? I hear they're right expensive.” Mike said plaintively, clearly just as curious about it as John was. Briggs stretched a little lazily, tilting his head to the side so he could work out a crick in his neck. He scratched one side of his head as if thinking on the answer.

 

“Depends on where you're posted. Low-risk operations means you'll have to wait at least a few years. However since you two are medical boys chances are you'll be sent to the really important lines. I'd say by your first year.”

 

His friend grinned excitedly at the answer, but John frowned. He didn't like the idea of being sent into such a dangerous mission. Then again if he could help people, he'd do it. After all the only one who would miss him back here would by Harry, and she hardly noticed his absence most of the time. Still his cautious side warned him to question things. To not get caught up in the bluster and bravado that came with the whispering lies of being a War Hero.

 

“When you say dangerous.... How dangerous do you mean?”

 

“Being medics will mean you won't be put on the front lines most likely. You probably won't see much battle at all. After all, if one man can patch up fifteen other men, they tend to put the fifteen other men out first. Plus with Dragons now being used as Defensive Partners, mortality rates have dropped significantly.”

Briggs grinned, and though John didn't totally believe what he was saying his next words sealed the deal for him.

 

“Plus serve three years and we'll pay for your medical education.”

 

John didn't think twice as he stuck out his hand, the chance of getting out of the Slums a one in a million chance he wasn't about to refuse.

To forget his past life and embrace a new identity.

It was better than a magic spell.

 

“Deal.”

 

Beside them, Damelia looked down and away at her pristine black boots.

Her smirk of pity was left unseen.


	2. Enemies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay officially first chapter is out! ^_^ 
> 
> *throws confetti* 
> 
> so from the sounds of it you guys were most interested in Sherlock being a Northern Dragon, so that's what I went with. :3
> 
> Kudos and comments are adored and kept close to my soul.

 

 

 

 

 **Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes**.

 

 

 

 **Northern Dragons (Species):** _Northern Dragons are perhaps one of the oldest species of Dragons to have existed. Given this information it makes sense to deduce that there are many sub-species within this category. The Term "Northern" is actually a misnomer, as Northern Dragons live anywhere and everywhere all over the world, provided it is a mountainous region. They are a species that are highly adaptable, and are distinct from their Chinese and English cousins by their large feet and hands made for handling snow and rock, pale blue eyes and their ability to change the colour of their scales. Northern Dragons tend to have aggressive temperaments, partly because within the Dragon hierarchy they are considered the 'ruling' class being the oldest species. Many Northerns were hunted for the remarkable healing qualities of their horns (See Section C page 778 for more information) As a result, they have become a bit of a novelty for Humans, their eggs often sold on the black market as "pets"._

_Make no mistake though, Northerns are every bit as dangerous as their other Dragon cousins, and without proper care and treatment as with all Dragons a Human risks them turning "savage". (See page 55 for details on "savage" state)._

 

 

Dragons began to become standard-issue weapons in a sense for the Queen's Army around the time that John turned twelve. As a child, he had imagined great hulking beasts that breathed malignant black smoke and slitted gold eyes like the stories his sister used to read to him. Tales of The Hobbit came to mind as he grew up, of monstrous creatures and glittering hoards of jewels hidden away in underground waterfalls that shimmered with black magic. As he got older however, he learned that a Dragon in its full form was indeed terrifying and monstrous, but that a Dragon disguised as a Human was far, far worse.

 

He grew up in school hearing about how to best defend oneself if a Dragon were to attack, curled up to news reports showing the War casualties and how many Humans lay dead in the streets. Especially in the really heavily populated places like New York, where there were actual Dragon Gangs that roamed the streets. Being at War with an entire other subspecies of creatures had painted John's childhood with colourful doses of fear and grudging respect for an animal that could look like a four foot tall woman and yet rip you in half with their bare hands. It was like a tiger, or perhaps a vicious dog. Treat it with respect and distance and he was sure it would do the same to you. That's what the Army did in the end with the prisoners of War they gathered. Turned them into intelligent, weapon-like pets.

 

No big deal.

No big deal at all....

 

At least, that is what he told himself when he was confronted with the fact that he was actually finished several months of back-breaking training and was now expected to actually _visit_ a Kennel to pick a breed. He groaned as he looked about the empty flat before him, hardly daring to believe that the military had paid to have it bought for him. The benefit of being in the Army during wartime he supposed, but it was certainly a step up from where he had once lived. District Three was a military-based area in central London, and John had used to be able to just make out the outline of it at sunrise from his bedroom window. Now he stood inside the empty flat before him and winced at the loud sound of traffic coming from the outside window, and wondered if the place didn't feel just a little bit lonely and too large for him.

 

 _ **221 B**_ , it had a charming enough ring to it. Baker Street from what little John had seen he thought it looked like a nice enough neighbourhood. Low crime rate, and his clothes were considered worn but not shabby compared to the other people he had met. There was a really good Italian restaurant not too far away, and a Tesco's that had some pretty good sandwiches. John had eaten one on his way here, finishing off the last crust of ham and cheese just as he had bumped into the landlady, Mrs. Hudson.

She was an incredibly warm woman, and though she had to have been in her seventies she moved about the place with a kind of Mothering presence that reminded John distinctly of his own Mum when he had been very small. It was a calming atmosphere, and though he had started out being fairly nervous being in a new District and a new City, the knot of worry slowly loosened as she harried about him, doing chores even while stating emphatically that she was _'Not his Housekeeper!'._

 

His stuff was all being shipped tonight, so nothing really sat in the flat at all save for a table that the old resident had left behind, and two solitary beds upstairs. He supposed it would be needed, after all if he was going to be having a Dragon roaming the place he would have to probably give it a place to make itself comfortable. Somehow he felt like a creature with that kind of power wouldn't take well to sleeping on a sofa.

 

...Did Dragons sleep?

 

John paused as he wondered at the question to himself. He and Mike had both been given pamphlets from the _NDTF (National Dragon Training Facility)_ but he had hardly began reading it before it had all felt too surreal. Now he went hunting for his bag that he had discarded earlier by the table in the kitchen, palming the heavy pages of folded paper that had the cover of a rather aggressive-looking English Dragon snarling on the cover. It's title read, ironically enough,

 

_How To Train Your Dragon!_

 

Sitting on the creaky chair in the kitchen, John began to read into the night to distract him from the overwhelming note of panic singing lowly in his gut.

Just like a computer manual.

Except this computer would have _claws....._

Not to mention a possible taste for Human flesh....

 

****

Sherlock knows that he will probably be put down soon.

He knows because of the way his Handlers look at him, with a mix of cruel amusement and gloating revenge for the many years of enslavement in which he's fought them every step of the way. His wing ached today, in that place where he couldn't quite reach, and he was irritable and moody. It was probably raining outside. He wondered what it tasted like, if it was clear and cool like some part of him seemed to believe it was. Throat suddenly dry, he licked his lips and knelt at the puddle dripping into his Kennel. The water is flecked with rust from the pipes and tastes sour and metallic, but he doesn't much care. It relieves the ache in his mouth and tongue. His tongue darting across his lips as he finished to wipe away any excess water, he let his green-blue eyes flick lightly over the darkness of his Cell.

Such a tiny world. If he stretched his wings, they felt cramped in their confinements. He couldn't even fully transform, stuck in his Halfling state or his Human disguise. The collar chafed against the bare white expanse of his neck, and he wondered briefly if he would miss life. Sherlock of course wasn't sure what came after time on Earth if anything at all, but somehow he wished he could at least spread his wings fully. Since he was a child his Crates and later Cages were always just a little too small to do it. Just once, he would like to know what it felt like to have the freedom enough to imagine the lost act of flying.

 

Dragons with temperament issues were often put down. If they were not 'picked' by people because of aggression issues or perhaps a birth defect, then they were put on the Red List. Because Dragons were reasonably rare creatures, they were not put down for another five years after their initiation onto said list, but Sherlock always seemed to push the envelope for being borderline dangerous. He snarled when the Handlers touched him, not that he could help it since they often touched his bad wing. He also rarely ate the food offered to him, so he was skinnier than most of the other Dragons. He made sure to look menacing and not in a good way when the soldiers or the rich came looking for Slaves to take.

He did everything he could possibly do to ensure an early death in the Kennels. Because if this was life in all of its glory, it was so boringly painful he didn't want to live it.

 

****

 

John and Mike decided they would go together. After all, both of them had to pick one out, and though neither of them was willing to quite admit it they were both more than a little bit wary of meeting their Dragon for the first time. They were offered a drive by a Lieutenant Dodge to the Central Kennel, a woman with a baby sort of face but eyes that seemed hard and glinted fiercely in the light of her car. She had her Dragon; Cerioth drive them towards the outskirts of the City. John couldn't help but notice the way the woman's hand rested at all times on the Stun button for the creature's collar just in case, though Cerioth barely acknowledged their presence. There was a decidedly subdued presence around him, almost meek.

John wondered just how many times he had been Disciplined that such a powerful creature could be reduced to a serving boy.

He also wondered if he would have the level of steel to turn _his_ Dragon in that direction.

 

According to the pamphlet there were three levels of Dragon. White Card, Yellow Card and Red Card. It was a system designed to have new owners know easily what level of aggression and obstinacy they were to deal with. White Cards were mostly young Dragons, babies or infants or extremely docile-tempered personalities. Usually these were for beginners just getting into the Dragon-raising world. However because John and Mike would be in the Military and their Dragons would be doing active battle with other Dragons, they were required to choose a Yellow Card at least. Yellow Cards had some aggressive tendencies, but they were overall balanced. Red Card were for the experienced only, and even then not many were chosen for Adoption. The fact was that it was their last chance, once a Dragon was put on that list they were almost certainly destined to be used as cannon fodder.

 

“The Handlers will tell you how to approach them. The Kennel tends to be a stressful place for them, so they'll probably be fairly skittish all things considered. Plus they'll be half-drowned so that they can't breathe fire. “Adoption” days are like that. The non-firebreathers will also be contained in their own ways too, so don't worry. They dehydrate the ones that can spit boiling water, and the ones that breathe ice are overheated. ”

 

_All neat and orderly. Like shopping for a dog._

 

John thought, noticing how their driver didn't react at all to the mistreatment of his brothers and sisters. Cerioth's face was actually carefully blank, like he was afraid to let any expression of any kind show on his features. The young medic wondered to himself what tier he was, and what species. He suspected Chinese, if only because of the dark hair and dark eyes. Not English definitely, and Northern's tended to have lighter irises.

 

Enemies and allies, all fighting on the same side. John felt a small chill run up his spine as the Dragon fixed him with a brief but cold stare in the reflection of the rear-view mirror.

Somehow, he knew for a fact that just because that Collar surrounded the Dragon's neck, didn't mean he didn't occasionally consider killing one or two Humans at least every once in a while.

_No trust._

He would take the rule he had adopted from dealing with his Father then.

Tough love.

Hold them at arm's length, and be caring towards their needs but distant.

 

No attachments.

Less messy in the end.

It also kept John from making the mistake of considering them _Human._ Something he was finding he was having a very hard time doing as Cerioth's gaze slid in a reptilian way back to the road, pulling into the Kennels and leaving the engine idling for his Mistress.

 

****

 

The Central Kennel as it turned out, was the sort of place that made John think of fleas and excrement, of blood and other unpleasantries. On the outside it _looked_ official enough to be sure, probably to fulfil some non-existent guideline or Government requirement somewhere. The tan brick-work was functional, and there was an electric fence surrounding it in typical military fashion. However the inside was an entirely other matter, and John and Mike both were uncomfortably reminded of their homes back in the Slums as they stepped into the front office and were slapped with the sharp and crude taste of animalistic fear. It was a good thing the blonde thought, that Cerioth had been instructed to stay in the car and wait for his Mistress, because John was sure if he had heard the horrible whimpering and snarling beyond the front desk towards the back he would have lashed out, if not at least cowered. Perhaps it had been on purpose, as Lieutenant Dodge appeared to notice as well as her nose wrinkled in sharp distaste as she made sure to check her boots for dirt as they walked in.

The man behind the desk had a sort of oily look about him, all sharp angles and aggressive strength that was only barely hidden by the grey uniform he wore. He smiled a too-white smile at John and Mike, sensing fresh blood per se as he looked the two young men over. John felt the back of his neck prickle with instant dislike. From the scowl on Mike's face, he could tell that his friend was having similar thoughts.

Both boys had learned when to notice a rat was curled up and baring its' teeth on their path.

 

John suddenly wished the Lieutenant wasn't giving them such a firm glare. Or that she didn't gesture to the tazer she had about her belt.

 

“We've got two new recruits for the Queen's Army, Mr. Lyle, fresh out of training.”

The man grinned at the use of his surname, eyeing the woman before him in such a way that made Dodge's fists tighten minutely and her voice come a little sharper as she added.

 

“We would like to get started as soon as possible.”

 

He ran his tongue over his slightly too-large teeth once in acknowledgement, passing her one more glance before he clasped his long hands in front of him and gave a simpering smile to the two men beside her.

“Welcome to the Central Kennel. Nik Lyle at your service.”

 

“Watson.”

John said, not bothering to shake the man's hand.

 

“S-Stamford.”

Mike muttered just a little bit timidly.

 

Mr. Lyle's eyes narrowed slightly then became very wide with feigned pleasantry, his smile stretching bigger across his face as he stood before them.

Guarding The Gateway to the back.

Like a Reaper that demanded some demented blood sacrifice for eternal treasure or youth.

It would be like the beginning to a bad legend, if the entrance didn't smell like piss and terror.

John had to suppress a slight grin, despite his discomfort.

 

“As I'm sure you read in your pamphlet, we here at Central Kennels only have the _finest_ selection of Dragons, everything from Eastern Mountain Wyverns to Chinese Lake Monitors. It is a literal menagerie, and I _guarantee_ you will find one that will suit your own unique personalities and skills just fine.”

 

He turned then to Mike, arching a thin eyebrow and looking him over slyly.

“I see in you probably something softer. A caretaker for when you are off and abroad perhaps? Something to keep you warm on a cold Desert night?”

His eyes glittered knowingly, and Mike blushed beet red and mumbled something decidedly incoherent under his breath. John inwardly cringed. He did not see how some people could feel so _comfortable_ shagging a monster that could rip your innards out in a heartbeat. To him it was like a gerbil trying to kiss a snake.

No.

If he wanted sex he would much rather stake his luck against Human women.

Though granted, sometimes they could be just as savage.

 

Lyle then turned to John, seeing the uncomfortable lock of his jaw and the tense line of his back. The blonde man thought he saw the man frown slightly, but quickly it was smoothed over with a cheesy smile and a clap on his shoulder that made him want to cringe.

 

“You sir, I see in you the desire for strength. Discipline. Something that follows orders well but has lethal capabilities. I definitely would advise something of English origin. Strong, dependable mounts and they aren't nearly as delicate-boned as the Chinese variety. Or as broody as the Northerns for that matter.”

He chuckled like he just told some great joke, but John didn't see exactly what was so funny. He just wished the man would let him go so he didn't feel quite so claustrophobic. Seemingly sensing that he wasn't as swayed by his silken words Mr. Lyle straightened his collar firmly and seemed to adjust to business, holding out his hand in a sweeping gesture that wasn't unlike a shepherd herding a group of dull sheep into a pen.

 

“Right this way then, ladies and gentlemen.”

 

John briefly felt Dodge lightly brush his shoulder in a strangely supportive gesture, and then the three entered the darkness that was the Kennels.

 

****

They all felt it. The shift in atmosphere. Like a drop in pressure when weather was changing, Quick as a flip being switched, the air went from muggy and too humid to cold, arid and stale. Sherlock could _feel_ the shifting of scales about him as he sat crouched, his knees tucked against his chest and his tail curling about him in the darkness. His collar choked him today more than usual, as he was tucked into the furthest corner of his cage.

Today was the day they would come for him.

 

He could taste it, even as he let out a soft rumble and joined in on the air of discontent. Adoption Day, when some would leave and never return, forced most often to hard labour or sex slaves depending on a stupid coloured tag worn about your neck. Disgusting really, though some truly didn't know how to only take what they could handle. Sherlock felt warm and clammy, mostly because they had forced him under the heating lamps until his skin had blistered and his throat had cried out for water. He leaned into the cool brick-work of the wall, trying to get his body temperature back to the normal below-freezing point. He panted slightly, the sound animal and ghostly in the dark. Others whimpered, half-drowned, and some shivered and tried to keep their fingers from turning blue thanks to ice baths.

One person that had tried to take Sherlock, had wanted him as a sexual partner. Only a night passed and the man was sent to the ER, suffering frostbite in places that no Human in the right mind could conceive of. For a moment he bared his teeth at the memory, fierce once more for a second before he remembered his weakened state. Then he slumped back into his chains, listening as he flicked his slightly pointed ears to the sound of The Gateway opening to let in the new wave of meaningless presences that would ogle him for an instant before seeing the Red on his Collar and drawing away.

Because Red meant he was dangerous.

Red meant he was deadly.

Red meant he could _kill_ and he _had._

 

And really, a rabid dog was just as lethal to the owner as it was to his enemies, and Sherlock didn't much like playing pet any ways.

He was ready to die.

 

Down the hall, footsteps trudged forward, entering the Hell that was his tiny, boxed-in world. The door shut audibly, as if announcing the strange quality of a place like a Kennel. Entering was easy enough, but once you laid eyes on the quality, the lives before you, it was much harder to leave.....

 

****

John did not like it here.

That one thought was surprisingly elegant in his opinion, considering as soon as he stepped onto the cobblestone floor the acrid stench of hundreds of unwashed bodies confronted his nose. He nearly gagged, gritting his teeth as his eyes watered and he tried to blink past the automatic tears to see before him. It was a dark hallway, lined with cell bars that glinted silver in the low-hanging lights. The bulbs hummed a dull yellow, incandescent and glaring as they swung softly to the invisible breath of thousands of lives. The _noise_ was deafening to him, and he squinted his eyes in pain as a mix of both Human and beast-like shrieks assaulted him from all angles. Mr. Lyle seemed to however only become aggravated with the tumult, grabbing a tazer off a hook by the door and waving it threateningly until the hands that reached for them desperately through the bars and clawed at the ground retreated, moans becoming snivelling whimpers that made John think of wounded babies left to starve in the woods. He felt his nostrils flare in tightly controlled rage as he realized for about the twelfth time since this whole thing began that he did not _want_ a slave. He'd sooner risk getting torn open or shot at than risk sleeping _next_ to one of these _things_ , and yet couldn't bring himself to hate them enough that he could respond with glee as he watched Lyle unapologetically zap a White Collared Chinese Dragon that recoiled from his bars with a low wail. The man's voice remained measured and calm throughout it all as if he didn't even _see_ the same scene before him, and to John's shock he saw the Lieutenant have the same carefully blank expression on her face. Mike was following suit too, albeit more nervously. His sweat stood out on the cleft of his brow, clear on his pinkened flesh.

 

Nerves.

John got the distinct feeling _they_ could hear it, pounding away in their hearts as adrenaline. He couldn't make out much in terms of distinct shapes, but he could hear scales and skin shifting in the dark. Coiling, tightening for action. Predator's taking in prey that had somehow come out on top in the food chain. Enemies, expected to be treated as Masters.

 

“I'll give you essentially free reign on the place for two hours. Then other clients come.”

Lyle shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets leisurely before handing Lieutenant Dodge the taze with an almost careless air.

“Feel free to get....acquainted with them or punish them if that's your thing. Just no permanent damage on the merchandise _please._ You can open any of the cages so long as you are armed _except_ a Red Case and so long as you agree you won't sue if bodily harm comes to you.”

 

He grinned at the last bit, eyes sharpening in a predatory way again. He reached out almost casually and stroked a White Collars' head, grabbing a lock of her soft ginger hair and bringing it to his lips in the mockery of a kiss before he laughed at her petrified growls and turned towards the exit. His last words rang in John's ears, echoing dreadfully down the halls in bell-like shivers.

 

“Have _fun_ boys.”

 

Then Mike and John found themselves the speculation of many glowing, slitted eyes gleaming brighter than the lamps themselves in the dark.

 

****

Sherlock could hear them as they slowly shifted about the many twisting halls and passageways, looking tentatively into the bars of the cells as if trying to find a treasure amongst stones. He could smell the nerves on them, tangy and sharp in his flared nostrils. As one blue-green eyes flicked open, he caught the mottled colour of Military garb on their leader, a woman with hard eyes. He watched her shadow unobtrusively, not moving from the shadow of his cage. He could almost be invisible, when he felt like it.

 

_Mid thirties, seen battle by the scars on her arms and the very slightly widened gait of someone used to bracing themselves under the weight of weaponry. Has been in service perhaps six years now, partly due to an abusive cousin or close family friend and a desire to escape their presence. From the mud on her boots I'd probably say hard-working and likes to do hands-on jobs. Tough but fair, doesn't beat her Dragon excessively, but enough to keep him in line. Enjoys order, and thinks the blonde one will make a better soldier than the brunette._

 

The Dragon then closes his eyes again, bored with analyzing Humans and their idiosyncrasies. It is only when he hears the creak of the Gateway opening again that he bothers to look up, hearing the distinct rattle of chains and leads headed in his direction. It looked like they weren't going to bother to wait until the newcomers left.

It was time.

 

With sinuous grace Sherlock rose to his feet, his collar tinkling in the dark. It was just as the two burly Handlers, one with blonde hair and the other with dirty brown, that a pair of blue eyes caught his curiously as John rounded the corner upon hearing the sound of movement.

 

****

There truly were Dragons of all kinds in the Kennels. Lyle hadn't lied about that much, it was a virtual circus down in the halls of cages, all lined in rows. Crates and actual Cells, all glinting with eerie silver light as if glowing from within. He and Mike quickly realized that the two hours, though it had seemed excessive at the time was necessary to get a look at all of the creatures writhing and snarling in their pens. Mike decided to go about the job numerically, starting with the first cage and working his way down, but John soon found himself just wandering amongst the cages. He  peered into the darkness at the strange and mysterious animals before him. There were woman-shapes and man-shapes, most of the Dragons half-formed so they could fit in their containments. Yet there were also reptilian swishes of tails, the twitching of claws, and eyes that went from slitted to round with the absorption of light. He stopped in front of one cage, looking up at a quivering English Dragon with silver-grey eyes and short blonde hair. She bared her teeth at him in hatred, but she cowered when he reached out one hand as if to touch one partly-scaled shoulder. The non-Human parts of her skin glittered Cherry red. She was a Yellow Card.

John dropped his hand soothingly and moved away at her silent rebuttal.

 

Another was a White Card, but John crouched in front of his cage curiously anyway. A Chinese from the look of the Dark hair and the fact that he bore no wings but webbed hands as he looked at John with suspicion and fear. His scales were a jade green, and had delicate whorl-like patters that crawled up his cheeks and lined his eyes with silver. His irises were a beautiful, sinking gold. However John could see the delicateness in them and moved away from him too, unable and unwilling to bring something so fragile into a War-Zone.

 

On and on it went, and more and more John soon found that he couldn't feel a connection with _any_ of the Dragons he'd seen. But maybe that was because he was trying to find some semblance of connection with _Monsters._ Really, how did anyone _do_ this? He was torn between wishing he could report the horrible qualities of the Kennels to someone and wanting to just run and never turn back. He _knows_ somewhere deep inside that he would make a very bad Master, because he _knows_ the feeling of being helpless. And whenever he looked into their eyes, that's all he could see:

Helplessness.

Brokenness.

Subservience.

 

Mike eventually picked one out. A Yellow Card English. However from what John saw of her as Mike coaxed her out of her Kennel, she acted more like a White Card. Her name was Meriath, but his friend as he stroked her long red-brown hair seemed to have already given her a nickname.

Molly.

 

“Too soft for battle.”  Lieutenant Dodge commented sharply, but she didn't offer further argument as she grabbed the creature's chain and hauled her towards the front, threatening any disobedience with the idea of a taze. John didn't think the timid beast would even consider it anyway, the pitiful burbling noises she made as she was all but dragged away to be Chipped and Registered were panicked and small. He's also not sure if Dodge is actually referring to the Dragon or to Mike, because his friend had a soft look in his eyes that showed he picked Molly out of pity, and probably nothing more.

John is just about to think that he may have to come for a second visit, or close his eyes and choose at random. That is until he heard the soft chinking of the Gateway being opened and two men entering the room silhouetted in light. His eyes having become used to the darkness by this point, John squinted and used his hand to shield his vision as he saw the twin navy uniforms of Handlers. They each carried a lead, and on their belts were whips and tazers for good measure. Though they don't seem to be particularly pleasant gentlemen, they did tip their hats to the Lieutenant before completely ignoring John and Mike. Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed a distinct shift in all of the Dragon's mannerisms. Loud noises became cut into silence, slitted eyes widened to take in any small movement of the men as forked and non-forked tongues alike licked upper lips in nervous anticipation. Several of the creatures dove immediately for whatever small shelter they could find in their cages, some of them using their own wings as a sort of shield from whatever pain they expected to come. The two Handlers ignored most of them, and their gait spoke of having a purpose as they unerringly went towards the back of the Kennel, where most of the more dangerous Dragons abode. Neither John nor Mike had dared step foot across the line of Red tape, both of them silently agreeing that they would not find what they were looking for there.

 

However curiosity however morbid ate away at John as he found himself creeping slowly forward, a certain amount of wonder from the latent dregs of childhood wanting to see something as powerful and dangerous as the legends supplied. He noticed immediately that the Cages here were different than the others. For one, they were bolted to the wall, and were bigger. For another, there were heavy-duty locks as well as chains almost as thick as his arms winding around every available surface it seemed. John as he silently followed the two men could barely see into some of the cages, catching only glittering eyes in unnatural colours and the low rumbling snarl of Monsters barely contained. He could feel their gazes upon him in the prickling of the back of his neck, and John found his heart began to beat a little faster in response, and his mouth became dry. He got the distinct impression he now knew how a bird felt under the eyes of a hungry cat. It didn't matter if these creatures were Collared and Caged, he could _feel_ the danger coursing through his veins. It gave him an odd _thrill_ that he couldn't quite name and staunchly refused to acknowledge, but it also made his legs wobbly. Soon the two Handlers noticed his quiet stalking.

 

Instead of sending him away like he expected them to, they both smirked as if they saw something in his face that they recognized. The blonde man pulled out a heavy key as he knelt in front of a heavily padded lock at the last cage to the right, and his light voice spoke out into the darkness conversationally.

 

“Looks like you've got an audience to your Death March mate.”

 

It took John a second to realize the man was speaking to the _Dragon_ inside the cage. Though whatever was in there made no noise, John could see into one of the spaces between the bars of the Cell. He caught a flash of a dark blue tail twitching, quickly shifting from muted grey to deepest black until it hid itself back into shadow.

 

_A Northern one then._

 

The young man thought, and tilted his head to the side as if to get a better look. Northern Dragons were a bit of a novelty. They tended to be very powerful creatures, strong and good for battle, but because of the fact that they had to maintain a certain body temperature at all times they weren't often taken in. Coupled with the fact that their scales could shift colours to blend into a variety of different environments, they were also exceedingly difficult to keep track of or to catch. John caught a glimpse of a trademark pale blue eye as the creature blinked once. But it must have closed its eyes again the next second, as there was only shadow once more.

 

“Death March?”

 

John asked, licking his lips in confusion as the Handler set about unhooking the long chain that tied the entrance to the Cell closed. He wore heavy-duty protection underneath his uniform, long sleeves and leather gloves to prevent getting frostbite just in case they hadn't heated the Monster enough. His voice was a lazy drawl, but his words were sharp as he tugged the Cage open. From inside there was a hiss, and cold steam circled around John's ankles. Like fog from dry ice.

“Old smoky here's considered too dangerous to Adopt, has had a few Masters and all sent him back. He's no good to anyone just taking up space.”

 

From inside the cage, John heard a low rumbling snarl. He swallowed reflexively, taking a step back. If they were actually going to _bring_ the Dragon _out_ , then he should probably stay out of their way. Yet his feet held him planted in place, not allowing him movement as the sound of chains clicking onto a Collar and tugging filled his ears. In response there was a terrible, animalistic snarling, the kind that made the hair on the back of John's arms and neck stand on end. It echoed down the hall, alerting Mike and Dodge to what was going on. The lieutenant scowled, coming forward and making as if to grab John's arm, except the blonde man stayed firmly still. His eyes didn't move from the entrance of the Cage as slowly, bit by bit, the two men heaved and pulled. One of the men cussed loudly as whatever was inside pulled back, but they held their ground and kept tugging.

 

“Back up, boy!”

The woman snarled in John's ear, but he couldn't move.

Couldn't blink.

Couldn't _breathe_ as they slowly brought the form of the Dragon out from his Cage.

Because of all of the roaring, all of the smoke and all of the terrible beating of wings, John expected a hulking _Monster._

 

Instead, he found himself face to face with something that was _indeed_ terrifying, _indeed_ deadly.....

 

But also unmistakably, oddly, _beautiful._

_  
_And Sherlock, turning to snarl at the little whelp that had decided to watch his murder, found a pair of dark blue eyes looking at him not with hatred, not with ownership, but with unmasked and open _awe._

 


	3. Adoption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, I am OVERWHELMED by the extreme response this got... hope I can keep your attention with this next chapter.... <3
> 
> kudos and comments are loved!
> 
> I just realized I forgot to copy and paste the blurb at the beginning.... jeez sorry >.>

**Exerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

 

 **Dragon-Tongue(language):** _The language of Dragons is a complicated and intricate tongue, difficult to learn because it uses many sounds that a Human mouth can struggle to imitate. Because of this, many people do not understand the mannerisms of Dragons as they interact with one another. Dragons are extremely courteous and honour-bound creatures. It is often considered offensive if a Dragon does not refer to another Dragon as 'Milord' or 'My Lady'. In fact, Humans must be extremely careful when imitating the Dragon-Tongue, for without manners a Dragon could take offense. The best thing to do when learning a new language is to consult a professional, and to always admit when you do not understand a turn of phrase or a custom. (See Section C page 442 for more details on "Dragon Customs")  
_

 

 

When John had been very, very small his Mother had once bundled Harry and him into the best (and only) Winter clothes they'd owned, sneaking them past their Father as he snored drunkenly on the sofa and outside into the hushed night of Christmas Eve. He could remember how she tugged them along lightly, the smell of cinnamon cider still on her breath and a smile on her tired face that he didn't get to see very much in those days warming her eyes to a light blue.

He had always been told he had her eyes, even after she passed away. John however never thought his eyes could change from such a dark shade to something so light in an instant. To him it seemed like a Magic trick, before he had learned that Magic was bad and evil because only Dragons could use it.

Though it might have been because he was still sleepy and confused as to where his Mother was taking them that it had seemed like such a dramatic change at the time. Like a dark ocean turning into the palest light of dawn.

 

His steps had been heavy with sleep as he stomped his feet into his boots, trying to tie the laces by himself (because Dad said men knew how to take care of themselves) and Harry yawning by his ear as she pulled on her woollen mittens. Bright red, John had remembered, just like the colour of a fire-truck. She had gotten them just for that reason, so she wouldn't lose them.

 

Back then both of them had gotten to see a lot of fire-trucks, mostly on the telly. They put out the fires that burned the cities and saved people, so John supposed they were important. At least important enough to go careening through traffic like they did, heedless of rules or regulations. He'd once seen one in real life, and it had actually caused an accident because someone hadn't gotten their car out of the way fast enough. It had been a scary, shrieking thing that seemed too big and too bright all at once. At the time he had cowered behind his Mother's leg.

 

Still....

 

He kind of liked the idea of being a fire-fighter, except for the fact that if he was one then he wouldn't get to learn how to use a gun. The thought made him frown unhappily. As a five year old boy, he thought it very important that he learn how to fire a gun. After all, who would protect big sis or Mum if he didn't learn how to?

 

Da sometimes did, but sometimes he hurt them. The thought had made his hands clench tightly, his nails digging crescent moons into his palms. His Mother had noticed where he was glaring as she knelt in front of him and pulled his mitts carefully over his fingers. Her voice had been low in his ear, and it had sparkled to him more than the shabby Christmas tree in the corner of their living room, looking like the Charlie brown tree because it was overburdened with rows of tinsel and popcorn rows. Warning him to be careful of his emotions even while not precisely chastising him. She had been good at that.

Skilled at keeping a level, teaching hand without being mean.

“ _Shh_. This is for your eyes only dear. Don't let him spoil things for you.”

 

Slowly, she had rubbed methodical circles over his knuckles until he had been forced to relax his steel grip on nothing but the air.

 

Then she had taken his hand gently, reaching for Harry's fingers with her other one, and she had taken them outside to see the sunrise. At the time, her proud look on him had made it worth not striking out at their Father. The little boy would have run forever just to catch a glimpse of that smile.

 

John could still sometimes recall the crunch of crisp snow under his boots, and the way his breath had appeared before his fascinated eyes like the clouds in the sky before fading off into the distance. So early in the morning, hardly anyone was out and about. It had been strange, seeing his slum of a district utterly still and peaceful. Like the entire world was holding their breath, creating one Christmas Miracle in the form of a moment of deafening silence. Their footsteps had sound so loud, and they pressed into the fresh white flakes under them and painted them with their passing. His Mother had taken them to the ladder on the side of the one grocery store, called Sarnie's _._ Her hands had gripped the rusted rungs and her knuckles had turned white as she hoisted herself up, turning to give Harry a hand up to the bottom rung, who in turn held out a hand for John. Climbing had been fairly easy, but John wasn't used to heights. His Mother had whispered to them not to look down, and the curious little boy had made the mistake of ignoring her and looking directly below. Beneath him the ground seemed to stretch impossibly far below, and John's stomach had dropped out from under him in horror as he realized distantly that if he fell he'd crack his head out onto the pavement. His entire body stilled with frozen terror, his hands gripping the rungs so tightly that the blood had drained from his knuckles, and his knees buckled and threatened to give way. His heart pounding in his ears, he stood stuck. Unable to move forward, yet unable to go back.

That moment of blind terror would live with him forever.

The sensation of not quite falling and not quite standing on land.

 

Even though Harry had eventually pulled him the rest of the way up with a mocking giggle, John maintained a fear of heights to this day.

 

Though the memory hadn't been all bad.

Because once he had been hoisted onto the flat roof of the building, his Mother had lead him to the very centre of it, where if John squinted he could see District One, shining in all of its splendour off into the distance. The little boy had gripped the edge of her coat and gaped, because before his eyes the city turned from dull grey to brilliant silver, shining as the sky lightened to a pale and watery yellow to shining gold and deepest scarlet and pink. It was like watching a small film, as his round eyes took in the bright orange disk that rose to silhouette the city in the distance in colours so bright it hurt his eyes, and yet John couldn't bear to look away. His eyes had narrowed but he had stared on determinedly, refusing to give in even though his eyes stung and watered. He didn't even dare to blink until the pinks and golds faded into the beautiful pale blue of dawn cresting the horizon, and he heard the first early keeners of his District below wake from their beds and rise.

 

It had been his Mother's last Christmas present to him before she passed on.

In the two years to follow she'd be too sick to pay for presents, much less climb roofs.

 

John was reminded of that sky now as he stared at the beast before him and his legs trembled in fear and awe, lips parted in shock as for a moment the Dragon regarded him speculatively, snarls dying slowly in its throat as it stared at him with narrowed eyes. In return, the young man stared back at something that was not quite man and not quite beast, unsure of what exactly he was seeing.

 

It was a curious thing, because in its nudity, he saw that it was much more Human than he first had suspected. It almost made him embarrassed to look, except for the fact that he had no choice as he was half afraid it would lunge at him if he turned away.

 

It  stood before him half-crouched, but looked like it was more because of it being used to cramped quarters as opposed to an inability to rise fully. The shape of it overall was a man, and yet not quite. Like a puzzle somehow having certain pieces from another box connected to it. Milky-pale skin clung over protruding ribs and bones, being broken here and there by patches of layered, diamond-shaped scales jutting out almost defensively. Their colours were shifting and strange, from that Sky-blue that made John remember his childhood to the deepest purple, its confusion evident in the rapid succession of its shifting. When the creature breathed, smoke came out of its Human mouth, but it was cool as the clouds of fog John had seen on Christmas morning wandering about before dawn. It had darkly curled, greasy black hair, but the young man suspected with a good scrubbing it would shine like newly polished leather boots in the sun. The creature was littered in scars and scrapes and abrasions like War-paint , and it was plain to see it fought its bonds regularly as thin red lines circled its wrists and neck where the Collar sat. Though its eyes were ringed with dark circles, their irises glowed an unearthly and rather haunted blue as they looked down at him, for the creature was tall as it was thin. John got the unnerving impression staring into those eyes that his very skin was being stripped away from him. That every secret thought, every sentient idea he had ever had was being laid bare before this recalcitrant being.

 

 

Sherlock in turn, did the same.

Observe.

Although he did it much more thoroughly.

What he saw confused him.

_Blonde hair, the colour of sunlight on a Summer's day. I don't know what that actually looks like, but that's what I think it should look like. Eyes like sky. I saw the sky once, I think. When I was being transported from another Kennel. Except these are lighter somehow, and there's no stars in them. Though there is shine. Possibly from the refraction of light in angles as it bounces off his retina. Already has a Military bearing, perhaps because his Father was ex-Army. Abusive home, can tell because of obvious reluctance of being here where there is suffering and yet he's going through with it. Speaks of a desire to leave home as well as a distaste for blood. Though his leaving is not for financial reasons it's a part of it. Methodical person, plain and simple. Expressive face, given that he hasn't stopped gaping like a hungry Hatchling since he's seen me._

_Has a small but deceptively muscular build, but **why** does he look at me that way?_

_Illogical. He is just afraid._

_A predator staring at prey, nothing more......_

_What does he **see?**_

 

And the Dragon didn't know and couldn't read it from the man, but it scared him and compelled him at the same time.

 

John thought he heard a voice in his head, rumbling and deep like the softest echo of a thunderstorm. The barest brush of a breath within his mind. It could almost be mistaken for his own voice inside of his thoughts. His eyes widened.

 

_**Why...?** _

 

 

Then one of the Handlers seemed to find his tazer, hand coming up in a cutting arc to plunge the electrical device straight into the beasts' arm. Time restarted with a jolt and John was left wondering if he had imagined the voice as the beast reared viciously.

A pealing sound of agony tore from its lips that made the young man's ears ring and almost drove him to his knees. Confused blue turned into pained and furious red, and with a mighty shriek of agony the beast turned and transformed, becoming a fully-sized Dragon for just an instant and almost closing its teeth around the Handlers' head before a second taze from the Lieutenant brought him down.

A giant shadowy blur that John flinched away from instinctively.

 

With a tremor that shook the very walls of the Cages themselves the beast stumbled and fell onto the ground, long tail nearly impaling John as it lashed one last furious time before going limp and still with unconsciousness. He and Mike stumbled away and then forward, trying to regain their footing even as the dust settled, and the shrieks and jeers of other Dragons filled the air with noises of distress that became deafeningly loud and swelled to echo in the Kennels.

 

Then there is silence.

Silence so profound that all Humans just stare at the felled creature before them in shock, unable to move and yet unable to quite look away at something so powerfully vicious.

 

John barely notices when he says it, but he cannot be oblivious to the incredulous look his friend gives him when he mutters

“That one. I'll take the Northern.”

 

If only because if he was going to be eaten by something with eighteen inch fangs because of his obvious ineptitude at training animals, he wanted to die seeing the colour of that sunrise one last time as his final breath.

 

****

Sherlock slept in a sea of darkness.

Clouded.

Painful.

Frightening.

He dreamt that he was swimming in black water that clung to skin sluggishly like tar and painted his precious scales black and grimy. It stung like acid when he tried to lick it off of him, blistering his tongue. It also tasted foul and poisonous. He couldn't stop swimming for too long though, because as soon as he stopped he began to sink. In his True form, he lashed and writhed, terrified when this would happen. It was too hot, everything was too hot.

It _hurt_ , and he whimpered in distress and suffering.

 

When he complained, there was a cool touch on his brow. Stroking, petting. Sherlock wanted to recoil from it, but it felt too _good._ His body leaned against it against his will, searching for the source of the cool touch but unable to see it. A voice he didn't recognize murmured in his ear.

 

“Shh. It's all right. You'll be fine. It's all fine.”

It was a Human, but it didn't sound Human.

Humans growled and spat and shouted.

Humans beat and twisted his bones and broke his skin with their whips and tazers.

This voice was far too gentle to be of the same breed as the men who had tormented him for as long as he'd known.

 

The voice fades after a while, but the cooling touch stays. It is the only thing that keeps Sherlock sane, the feverish black liquid drowning him, pulling him under. He wants to fight, but he is becoming weaker. He can't keep attacking it.

Can't even try.

He is useless, his body betraying him finally to the dregs of stress and panic.

His limbs go slack, and he is submerged. It burns him, hurts him. Maims him.

 

He only experiences it for a second before blissful unconsciousness fills him and takes him away on a boat of dreams.

 

****

“You can't be serious. A rookie like you take care of a Red Card? No. I'm not going to allow this.” Dodge said flatly, crossing her arms over her chest even as she watched the Handlers get out two large metal Crates, locking a conscious and whimpering Molly and an unconscious Sherlock inside them with skilled and professional _clangs._

 

John to his credit  stubbornly ignored the woman, filling out the Adoption papers with a red-ink pen on the desk as Mr. Lyle grinned like it was Christmas morning and he had just been exceptionally good all year. Again his oily voice complimented John's choice, not that it had really been much of a decision at all. John was surprised the price wasn't higher for the Northern he's just selected, but he supposed the beast _had_ almost been put down in his presence. A mere one hundred pounds, dirt cheap for a dragon and the Military would reimburse him.

 

“A challenge is always good for a young man! Imagine the gratitude that comes from hard-work paid off when his Dragon rides with him into battle, I daresay I _told_ you that this one had a liking for danger!”

 

He clapped John on the shoulder warmly, and the young man scowled and moved out of his tight grip. Looking down at the contract before him, he noticed a line of fine print and frowned.

“What does it mean by _'no refunds'_?”

 

Lyle grinned wider, eyes glittering in the cool light as he put on an expression of totally unbelievable innocence.

“Means if you can't train it or break it, don't bother sendin' him back my dear sir. Have it executed on the grounds, drown it for all I care. That Northern's been a right pain since he was a Hatchling.”

 

Dodge looked at John, who had gone rather sickly pale at not only the idea of the permanence of this, but also with the idea of _drowning._ He swallowed thickly, and her low voice was rough and amused despite her anger with him.

“Having second thoughts already soldier?”

 

John hesitated then, just for a moment. His pen hovered in the air, just about where he was about to cross the _t_ to his last name. He could stop this. He could go back and pick out a Yellow Card, one that was docile and even-tempered and servile by nature. He didn't owe this animal anything, and there was no guarantee that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't find him a cold and lifeless corpse the next morning if he signed the paper. His hand trembled for just a moment in indecision, his teeth coming to clamp down on his lip as he stared at his name.

This.

This was Binding.

If he signed, that meant that any of his failure would be brought down on his own head.

The Dragon's blood would now be on his hands, should it attack someone.

Should it prove to be too feral to tame.

He already suspected it was half “savage”, and the scars littering its hide that he had seen as he Handlers had hauled the serpentine body into its Crate spoke of a fighter. A spirit that would not bend or break easily. He could just go home, take his docile servant, and shag a nice girl and have as easy a life as he could while being part of the Queen's Army.

 

In the end, it's the thing's low cries of fear that cause his pen to move. 'Cause his eyes to look over at the two beasts being loaded onto the trolley.

 

From inside the Crate, the Dragon moaned softly with the sound of a baby crying, shivering and sweating with eyes wild and disoriented. It broke something in John, the idea of such a proud and lovely creature sentenced to death like nothing more than a rabid dog.

He was a doctor, or at least he was training to be. It was not in his nature to ignore the cries of the ill, even if the ill happened to be a three hundred pound Dragon with claws that could turn him into sashimi if they felt so inclined.

 

He couldn't help it.

In a way, he was reminded of his older sister Harry. The creature made a bluster of being strong and fierce, but those blue-green eyes at the moment now were only filled with fear and primal suffering.

 

In the end he signed, and he saw Dodge draw a long and annoyed, but resigned sigh.

She hadn't thought he'd back out in the end either. Sometimes, there was no choosing a Dragon. Sometimes the Dragon chose you. As acerbic and vicious as the best was, she didn't dare question that kind of selection.

 

Her final words to him as the Handlers' get the trolleys to lift the Crates to the car were laced with a sort of sardonic amusement.

 

“Whatever. You want to make your own bed. You get to sleep in it.”

Then she let John click his heels and salute to her before she called him a “git” and gestured for them with an air of resignation to move on out.

 

****

They rode in silence, the two Crates just small enough to fit in the large boot of the car and allowing the people who sat in the back seat access to the two Caged and quite frankly, irritable dragons. Mike whispered soothing words to his obviously stressed Dragon occasionally, her mouth spitting a blackish sort of smoke as she slowly tried to re-light the flame in her gut after being drowned at the Kennels. It would be a few hours still though before she would succeed.

 

Though John's Dragon was still mostly out of it, he responded to Molly's tiny whimpers with snarling and snapping, seeming to be too dazed to realize that his protests were useless given the fact that he was in a metal box with air holes drilled in it. The noises he made were horrific, and even Cerioth looked vaguely tetchy and nervous as they grew in volume, the Dragon's hands tightening minutely about the wheel. It was interesting, to see even other Dragon's flinch away from a Red Card. The Northern didn't seem to notice. Its Crate rocked savagely as the beast threw itself against the metal confinements again and again, and John worried to himself that he'd have to deal with bruising along its shoulders and neck when he got him.

 

As they came to the main road Dodge's Dragon cautiously cleared his throat, and his low voice hesitantly spoke to his Mistress just loud enough that she'd hear even with her hands covering her ears against the din of roars.

 

“Permission to speak, Mistress?”

His tone was polite, but it held a tinge of fear in it that John wasn't sure was entirely from his Dragon's influence.

 

“What is it?” The woman snapped, obviously annoyed and now second-guessing her decision of letting John take the Northern Dragon with him. Her Dragon didn't react to the sharp tone, but he flinched physically as the creature in the back snarled something acerbic and in distinct Dragon-Tongue in his direction. The servant addressed the wild Dragon in the back with elegant courtesy and a surprising amount of respect, given the fact that John was fairly certain the beast was foaming at the mouth it was so infuriated. In fact it was so respectful that he wondered if perhaps Cerioth wasn't being just a bit mocking in his tone. Though if he was it was well disguised.

 

“It occurs to me that M'lord in the back is suffering from fever....Which no doubt is causing him no small amount of discomfort. There is a cooler underneath your seat with some wet wipes in them. It's not much, and he might consider it disrespectful.....but...”

 

Another snarl rang out, this one leaving John's ears ringing in bell-like aftershocks. Cerioth again winced, and this time he muttered something unintelligible in his own Tongue as he shifted gears to merge lanes, the car beeping softly with the turn.

John didn't have to think twice, knowing that no one else would volunteer to do it. He was desperate at this point to make the horrible noises stop.

“Mike, pass them to me.”

 

His friend peeled his hands away from his ears and looked like he could almost weep with relief. He leant forward and dug under the seats until he found the wet wipes and held them up to John like a trophy of reverent value. John took them into his hands, carefully peeling apart the wet pieces of fabric and releasing a slightly chemical smell in the air. Dodge turned to look at him, eyes glittering with seriousness.

 

“Be careful. He's a Northern, and their jaw strength is strong enough to break a grown man's femur. Your arm won't make it if he decides to attack.”

 

Her words sent a chill through John's spine, and he swallowed nervously and nodded in affirmation. The air holes were just large enough that John could fit his hand and the lower part of his arm into it, but he hesitated for a moment before doing so. Inside the Crate, the Dragon was obviously disoriented, also fairly angry. Normally he wouldn't think of doing anything that could provoke it further.

 

However he _needed_ to stop the horrible shrieking noises that it was making, or he was sure he wouldn't be able to get them to stop at home and he was tired enough that he didn't need another day of sleep deprivation. Holding his breath and his heart pounding like a jack-hammer inside of his chest, John closed his eyes tightly and reached inside the Crate.

 

Then, he placed a wet wipe covered hand ever so gently against the creature's heaving hide.

 

At first, he could feel the muscles in the beast coil under his hand, and the young man cringed and waited for the inevitable snarling and snapping of teeth where he could say goodbye to his hand. However in the next instant, something happened that made John for just a moment freeze, his mouth falling open in surprise as he had to blink to make sure what he was feeling was actually real. The Dragon, after pulling away from him and the coolness of the cloth, _leaned_ into the touch like a babe seeking its Mother.

 

That was when John knew for a fact that not only had they overheated the Monster, but they had probably fried some of his brain cells as well. Still he opened his eyes and relaxed infinitesimally, unable to quite grasp what he was seeing before him.

 

Its eyes didn't focus on him, they were too glazed and dizzy for that, but they were open and wide and held in them a hazy intelligence. John could feel underneath the fabric that the Dragon's skin was almost as warm as his, something that was most definitely _wrong_ for a Northern species and indicating illness most of the time. He frowned, unable to keep the scowl completely off of his face at the thought.

 

Secondly, John noticed that the Dragon had shrunken from its full form instinctively, and he caught a wisp of dark hair and pale skin laced with scars before a shifting blue-red wing hid the Monster's face from view. Subconsciously, John had been aware that he had picked a male, but it came to light more clearly by the strong outline of a muscular shoulder, leaning into his exposed hand so that John was inches away from touching where sinewy flesh met hard and unyielding scale. To feel the Dragon Shift was odd under his hands, because he could feel the bones under flesh shrinking and clicking into new order, not unlike a Rubik's cube being turned so that new sides were new colours. He marvelled silently at it, wondering to himself if he'd ever get to feel something like it ever again. The large, bat-like wings that his hand was inches away from quivered silently with the change.

 

It was such a smooth, gradual transition that it was impossible to entirely tell where man ended and beast began. Scale turned into flesh, and flesh turned into scale.

Except John thought he saw something black and festering on the other wing, marring the transition and making a jagged cut along the creature's spine. He frowned, recognizing signs of infection but not daring to touch the sluggishly bleeding wound lest it hurt and the Dragon attack him. Like black tar dripping down the beast's shoulders, it was an ugly, festering thing. His Doctor's instincts couldn't help it. He wanted a better look at it, but he forced himself to hold still for the sake of the safety of his limbs.

 

_Have to check that later._

 

Even though he knew nothing of Dragon anatomy. Or what in the hell kind of infection that was, if that's what it was at all. For all he knew it could be completely normal, although he doubted it, since the other wing was reasonably unmarred. Just a little filthy. That was another thing. The stench coming off both of the Dragons made his nose wrinkle and nausea threaten to creep into his mouth. Sour.

Like piss and rot.

 

_And a bath. Though I don't know if I can put him in a regular one. The heat might be a problem._

 

He stayed like that for the remainder of the car ride, too afraid to pull away less the creature snap at him, unable to tear his gaze from the spot just between the creature's scapulae.

And very quietly, the Monster growled a low rumbling noise that vibrated up the young man's arm and seem to shake him down to his very inner heart.

Whether it was a noise of contentment or a warning, John didn't think he'd ever know. However the Dragon never lashed out at him, and he thought to himself that perhaps he just maybe had a chance after all.

 

Sherlock dreamed of cool fingers wiping away the blackness, and very quietly murmured something in Dragon-Tongue in his sleep that made Cerioth's bright eyes stare with a silent kind of longing at the impossible expanse of open field stretching to their left towards The Wilds beyond. It was only for an instant, but the servant felt a pair of dark blue eyes on him and knew that the young man in the back seat was possibly far more observant than even he himself knew.

 

****

What Mrs. Hudson had apparently not told John when he had moved into _**221 B,**_ was that part of the reason she had been so warm and overjoyed at his acceptance of the flat was because the flat below _**221 C,**_ was never stayed in for more than just a few months at a time. Perhaps it was the damp, percolating through the very walls with it being a basement flat and all, or perhaps it was the fact that there was a generally eerie feeling lurking in its' depths. It was as if something had lingered in there, long ago, and the shadow of it still hadn't completely gone away. Like it was smudged into the very concrete of the floor itself, a charcoal rubbing.

 

John had found himself shivering at the entrance to it, torn in his mind between just lugging the impossibly heavy Crate upstairs and pissing the beast inside off further and going for his original plan.

After all, he wasn't about to just let a Red Card Dragon have free reign of his flat. At least not tonight. The pamphlet titled _How To Train Your Dragon_ had three sections, a page for each level of aggression and the Red Card side had instructed him to leave the best in its Crate for the first week to allow it time to calm down. However the fact was that John was afraid if he did so it would only make it angrier. Since Dodge had dropped him off at his flat, the young man had been forced to use up all of the wet wipes and then slowly remove his hand, and the beast had gone from a fairly compliant if not pitiful creature to the snarling terror that John had caught of glimpse of back in the Kennels. The Dragon had made such a fuss, kicking the insides of his Crate so that the _BANG_ had startled poor Mrs. Hudson as they stepped inside the complex.

The blonde youth wondered to himself if it wasn't too late to go back, flushing in embarrassed apology.

 

As he had lifted it, he could feel the Dragon's muscles clamping down, trying to make itself heavier so that even John's newly trained Army muscles struggled to lift the half-Human form inside. All the while the animal had kept up a steady stream of Dragon-Tongue based profanities and snarls, ones that even John could understand in their implications at least by the acerbic way they were spat at him. Other occupants had peeked out their front doors curiously at the noise, the flats mostly occupied by Military personnel so they often had a few Dragons peeking out as well. One snickered quietly at something the Dragon hissed at John, and was rewarded by a sharp cuff to his ear by his Master and a sharp order to 'apologize'. John flushed and murmured that punishment wasn't necessary for the giggle, partly because he supposed he _did_ look pretty funny and partly because the Dragon's Human form made it clear that the animal was barely out of its Hatchling years. He tried to ignore the mocking snort that briefly came from inside the Crate at his stumbling words before the high-pitched shriek continued full-force.

 

In the end, he had asked to use _**221 C**_ because despite the damp, the walls were sturdy concrete. Being a basement, it had no windows or easily breakable parts to it, and was only one floor. Though John didn't like the fact that it seemed to scream _prison_ instead of room, he thought that anything had to be better than the small steel box that the creature was currently residing in. At least if he could somehow convince the Dragon to relax in here, the likelihood of broken furniture (or bones) lessened somewhat than in his flat upstairs.

Then there was the issue of The Chip.

 

John huffed as he dragged the box down the final flight of steps and braced his elbows against the box, ignoring the Dragon's protests as he stopped to catch his breath and mutter a good-natured curse towards the great scaly beast underneath him. Yes, he would have to get his reservations about that over with before he was sent to the Training Base in eight weeks. The Chips were something that had been invented about three years ago, an interesting piece of technology that had originally been used to keep track of cats and dogs in case they go missing so one could track them via GPS or the Humane Society could find the animal's address if they found them. With the introduction of Prisoners Of War and Dragon Servitude, The Chip had been modified so that it reacted with a signal sewn into the Dragon's Collar. Using a Clicker of sorts hat John had been given as part of his package at the Kennels, a 'Master' could discipline their animal by the press of a button. Dragons were extremely sensitive to electrical pulses, as it turned out upon experimentation. John had never seen what it looked like for a servant to be 'Disciplined', but he _had_ seen his sister once stick a set of keys into a light socket. He shuddered to think of anyone _willingly_ shocking something into submission. It went against the very nature of his core, The Healer shuddering away from inducing harm on anything unless absolutely necessary.

 

However the Military required it, as using more humane methods of Training didn't often work on Dragons and was costly by nature. So John palmed the small metal remote in his pocket even as he listened to the deafening silence around him as the Dragon seemed to realize they had reached their destination. John locked the door to _**221 C**_ behind them, wanting to make sure just in case that if anything happened to him, the Monster couldn't get out and do anyone harm. Then he swiped his thumb against the inside of his wrist, noticing blankly his racing pulse and the way his blood was singing in his veins. He was sure the beast could probably hear it, and probably smell his fear.

 

_Probably a bit not good, but you've walked into this willingly, Watson. Time to sleep in the bed you made, just like Dodge told you that you must._

 

From inside the Crate, Sherlock heard rather than saw the straightening of the young man's shoulders, his arms moving away from the top of the Crate and coming to rest in fists at his side. Through the air-holes, the Dragon saw the silver metal rectangle of the Clicker shimmering. His irises narrowed to hateful slits. Yet he also noticed that the hand that held it trembled slightly. It was true that he could hear the heartbeat of the man, pounding wetly and racing in the silence of the room. Though he wasn't feeling well and he couldn't quite see past the pulsing haze of red that kept crawling over his vision, Sherlock bared his teeth in preparation.

 

Whatever would come would come then.

 

Both of them felt the shift in their thoughts as they both realized the same conclusion at the same time.

 

One could only stay frozen for so long, pretending time didn't exist. Locked in a stalemate that had no foreseeable end.

 

Still, it was nearly midnight before John's hand, fingers trembling something terrible, slid towards the heavy latch sealing the Crate and its contents inside.

 

_So much for a good night's sleep._

 

He thought frustratedly to himself.

And he nearly jumped out of his skin as inside his mind a familiar echoing voice growled in response.

 

_**Sleeping is boring.** _


	4. An Interested Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hai! :D sorry this took a litte while.... but guess what? I have a beta now! Much thanks goes to her fantasticness, thanks Iolre! <3
> 
> Hopefully now things shall read just a little more smoothly ;3
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! I am so thankful for all the love this story has already received.  
> Kudos/ comments make me squee :3

 

**Exerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Thralls (Noun):** _Contrary to urban myth, a "Thrall" is not a Human that has been "brainwashed" by a Dragon into servitude. Although such spells do exist (See page 332 for more information) being a "Thrall" is a biological trait that appears in certain Humans, and is a genetic condition that manifests in early childhood. Just about thirteen percent of all Humans across the Earth have thought to have the condition, though it is uncertain at how accurate this percentage is as the government tends to be fairly secretive about the status of their citizens on this matter. It is tested for in many countries including most of Europe at birth, and is then documented on the person's file. Being a "Thrall" means that the Human in question is more sensitive to the telepathic waves Dragons naturally produce in order to aid in their communication with one another. As a result, said Human will possess the ability to communicate non-verbally with any of the Dragon species, however only if the Dragon allows them access into their minds. The condition varies in strength depending on the person, and much like interacting with a person in the real world, many "Thralls" find with practice they can choose to ignore a Dragon's particular wavelength. Similarly, Dragons can adjust their own thoughts to either have the Thrall hear them more clearly, or muffle them to prevent them from listening in on their thoughts. All Dragons have the ability to read people's thoughts to a certain extent, but with "Thralls" it is substantially easier for them to lock down on their specific wavelength. Though no one is entirely certain how this ability comes to be or how it works, scientist theorize that it has something to do with certain Human's willfulness or their ability to 'adapt' their emotions to the people around them, or to certain situations. It is noted that a high number of "Thralls" are also victims of child abuse. There is some theory in that with the sensitivity to emotions one must learn to possess in such households, that these children learn to become sensitive to minute changes in the energy of people. (see page 453 Section A for more information on "telepathy in Dragons") **  
**_

 

John almost expected it.

After all, he probably would have done the same thing if their roles had been reversed. It made sense, to take advantage of any opening you could.

He still could not prepare himself in time before he was thrown across the room at like he was nothing more than a marionette with cut strings. The force of the impact knocked the wind out of him as his back hit the wall of the flat and his head cracked against the concrete, the velocity of the impact sparking fireworks behind his eyes.

Body slack, he felt himself slide down the flat expanse of the wall as he gasped. He didn't get very far, barely brushing the ground before a clawed hand wrapped itself around his throat pressing him against the wall so that his feet dangled in the air and kicked against nothing. Like a child being held up by his parent's arms, he swung for a moment in mid-air. Except parents did not normally hold children by their throats.

 

John gagged, vision going red as all of his air supply was cut off in a flash.

 

He found himself staring into the cold eyes of a Demon.

 

Sherlock had used what little strength he had left to lunge out of the Crate, using the element of surprise to launch himself like a serpentine torpedo at the blonde-haired man before he could react. The result was a satisfying _SMACK_ of flesh against unyielding concrete as they both found themselves pressed against the wall, the Dragon transformed into his snarling true form and towering like a shadow over the Human. Distantly, Sherlock noted how _small_ he was when he was in his full size, and how easily he could break him into pieces if he so chose. The feeling sent a primal wave of power washing through him. The territorial desire to be the strongest and fastest was something all animals revelled in.

 

John cowered, suddenly faced with a scaly muzzle armed with rows of pointed teeth, breathing ice against his face in harsh snorts that sounded almost as terrifying as the low growling coming from its parted lips. Plum-coloured gums were visible as the creature bared its teeth at him, slitted eyes a blazing light blue. Twin cold fires that burned with fever, boring unblinkingly into his mind. John could _feel_ the visceral strength in the claws that pinned him down, like a thousand trucks hovering just over his windpipe, threatening to snap it like a twig. His heart pulsed wildly in his ears, screaming in his system as he realized just how much danger he had put himself in. He struggled savagely, trying to kick out at the beast and not gaining any foothold while scrambling to remember his Military training. His chest began to heave in panic, ribs creaking as his lungs desperately begged for more air than he was being given. He could feel fear threatening to overtake him and send his mind into chaos like a whirling dervish.

 

He realized with a distant kind of horror that he had dropped The Clicker.

It lay on the floor, swept aside forcefully by the creature's impossibly long tail.

 

_Beats of three._

 

He could feel sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead as the creature pressed down harder. He whimpered as he tried to claw at his throat. An instinctual, useless action. It offered no relief.

 

_FourFourFour._

 

A part of him recalled one time when he had gotten into a scrap with his father. Da had been drinking all day, and John had come home to find him in one of his rages. Except this fight hadn't gone like they usually did. Normally, the older man had thrown in a few hits then quickly gotten bored, uninterested because John never screamed and rarely fought back. This time though he hadn't seemed to care, and the beating had gone on for hours. John could remember the way those fists had felt on his face, like a rock hitting him again and again in the jaw. By the third hour he had been sore all over. He broke down by the end and allowed himself to curl into a protective ball, crying silently all the time.

His Father had just laughed.

He had gotten what he wanted.

 

Then his Da had taken his belt to him, and John hadn't been able to keep quiet. Harry had come home just in time to stop his father from choking him to death using the piece of leather. Of all the fights he had, that one had been one of the worst, because John had been unsure if he would actually live. Most of the time, he could handle Da's moods, because he had always known that eventually it would end. When that buckle though had dug into his trachea, he hadn't been so sure.

 

The same kind of panic from that day was flooding his system now, hot and molten and painful.

 

_Breathe John!_

_You have to breathe._

 

He struggled to get enough air, the Dragon's grip only offering small streams of oxygen to reach his battered lungs. His vision became fuzzy at the edges despite his effort. John wondered for a moment what it would be like to die in such a gloomy way, killed his first day trying to train his Dragon because he was stupid and had felt pity for something that could eat him whole. Harry probably would mourn for a bit, but she tended to cope with sadness by drowning herself in spirits. Just like their Father. John would be nothing but the burning sensation of a bottle of Jack Daniels swishing down her throat.

The thought made him want to kick himself. Now was not the time for despair.

 

_What do I do? What did that damn pamphlet say?!?_

 

Interestingly enough, he couldn't recall anything that had seemed particularly useful. He wasn't even sure if the Monster would be able to understand him if he begged for mercy, because not all Dragons learned the Human language, especially if they were in the Kennels for a long time. Many couldn't read or write. John couldn't even pass French class in secondary school, much less learn Dragon-Tongue by some miracle in five seconds-the amount of time he guessed he would soon black-out. The thing seemed determined to strangle him as slowly as possible.

 

However he begged anyway, little gasping noises at the back of his throat that were probably unheard. Even John wasn't completely sure he succeeded in making them.

 

While it was partly true that Sherlock wanted to watch the Human eventually faint if only for a cruel sense of justice; he wasn't pinning the soldier to the wall for no reason. Though he continued up his menacing air, his head pounded steadily with a drumming pain that made him feel like he was going to throw up.

In truth, he was feeling slightly dizzy.

 

The sudden lunge had cost him, had made his heart begin to pound loudly in his chest, so loudly that it distracted him from what he was doing. Like a dripping tap, it was itching at the back of his head and making his revenge decidedly less enjoyable. Half of him recognized he was partially using the Human to lean on so that his knees didn't buckle.

 

He felt hot.

 

Too hot.

 

The burning had gotten steadily worse, from a simmering flame to a raging fire. His flesh crawled with it like a thousand ants scurrying over his skin and branding him. Though he had once felt a cool touch, it seemed to have been consumed by the raging inferno. He was sure his body was almost as warm as a Human's.

His arm shook, but it wasn't entirely with rage. It was with weakness, and he scowled at it and made it tighten on the young man's throat so that his uncooperative fingers wouldn't lose their resolve.

 

He could kill him.

 

He had the power to.

 

He _would_ kill him.

 

He realized absently that he was beginning to _pant._

 

His tongue lolled out of his sharp mouth against his will, his chest expanding as he heaved air into his lungs. Though he was reared up on his hind legs, the floor swayed perilously under him, like a ship tossing and turning in the waves of a black storm.

 

John thought he might be imagining it as his brain hallucinated from lack of air, but he nearly wept with relief as he felt the Dragon's claws loosen slightly. There was a strange sort of unfocused glaze to the creature's eyes, like it couldn't quite see what was really in front of it. Then again John didn't put much stalk into his own vision right at that moment, as it was fading in and out from black to colour. The young man felt his limbs growing heavy and static filling his ears.

It became harder to will his lungs to move.

They started and stopped in spasms.

 

It was just as John thought he might finally pass out that the soldier remembered one piece of information from the training he had all those weeks ago.

 

_Dragons are territorial. By nature they like to claim things._

 

And slowly, an impossible idea came to him, trickling into his head like river water pattering over the heavy stones filling his head. One that in theory could work but in practice was highly unlikely.

It was risky.

He knew it was.

 

Already he was dealing with a creature that was mad at him, and probably wouldn't hesitate under normal circumstances to rip his throat out. But John figured he was probably already dead anyway if he didn't do _something_ , so he thought it over in his mind longer than he might have in another situation.

He knew he didn't have much time either way. Eventually the Dragon would gather its resolve, even if it was confused and sick. It was quite possible it wouldn't read his cues properly, or that it was too far gone in the fever of its mind to register any kind of passiveness or signs for peace. Still, he had to try.

Otherwise he was certain he would wind up like a popsicle on a stick for the beast.

That is if Dragons ate people at all.

John wasn't sure, though he had heard horror stories.

 

His thoughts unconsciously became soothing and non-threatening as he made up his mind. Just like with his Da.

_Do not fight back, do not retaliate. Become distant, cut yourself off. You are an island, and nothing actually hurts unless you let it hurt. Don't show any aggression._

He would try.

 

John slowly let his body go slack, allowing the Dragon's arm to support all of his weight as he lowered his gaze submissively from the monster's piercing stare. His hand, which had come up to try and futilely fight against the creature's claws, carefully lowered to his side and went limp. Tentatively, the young man evened out his breathing as best as he could.

 

He heard its growls lower slightly in response, but he dared not look up. Not unless he wanted to risk accidentally meeting its gaze again and risking confrontation. He schooled his expression into a blank slate, free of all discomfort or anger and becoming plain and ordinary.

He could feel the claws loosen some more.

 

_Just a little bit further. I've got to seem totally harmless._

 

John thought. He took a deep breath then, because what he was about to do would put him in a very vulnerable position. However, he didn't think he had much choice at this point. He was already beginning to get more air into his lungs, and now they cried greedily for him to continue. Letting his eyes flutter shut as if feigning sleep, the young man bore the most vulnerable part of him towards the Dragon's teeth.

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned his head to the side. Exposing his throat in a universal sign of submission. His thoughts went in a loop instinctively, repeating a mantra in his head that flowed in a constant circle.

 

_I am not a threat. I am not a danger. I am nothing. I am not worth your energy to kill. Please don't eat me. I am not a threat...._

 

Sherlock felt the shift in energy beneath him like a light-switch turning off, though his head was muddled enough that he didn't quite know what to do with it at first. His instincts told him that his fight or flight response wasn't as necessary any more, and part of it he knew was because the Human in his grip had stopped fighting him. No.

It was more than that.

In fact he had become totally unresponsive.

Like the clay doll a daughter of a soldier had once thrown into the bars of his Kennel, frail and boneless.

At first, the Dragon wondered if maybe he had gone unconscious. But no, he could see the slow rise and fall of the Human's chest.

rhythmic and steady.

Forcibly calm.

A painting of relaxed submission that Sherlock did not normally associate with Humans.

 

At first his eyes narrowed in suspicion, and though his growls became weaker with both exhaustion and confusion, he was genuinely fascinated by the way the Human before him had changed in demeanour so quickly. Only a moment before he had fought appropriately, snarling and hitting even though Sherlock had barely felt it through the tough armour of his scales. In return he had fed off of the wired energy that the young man had explosively generated about John, using it to fuel his own rage and taste for blood as he watched him struggle like a cat pinning down the tail of a mouse.

 

But now it was gone, replaced by a meek cool that the Dragon couldn't use to spark his fury quite as effectively. Instead it set off a different set of emotional responses from him, ones less destructive and annoyingly more protective. He frowned, scales turning a confused and questioning teal colour, before melting away into the desire to make _sure_ that the Human before him stayed submissive. After all, it _could_ be a trap.

He could be pretending, and then he would take this room over and force Sherlock back into his Crate with the awful clicking thing that made his very insides roil with hate.

His Dragon instincts prodded at him, demanded he claim the territory around him, now that there was no threat to him. Reluctantly his grip loosened on the Human, the man's thoughts weak and docile. Sherlock didn't trust him, but he sensed no fight left in the man before him. John's mind was in a fixed state of servility.

Babbling, actually, in fear.

Yes, Sherlock could put his energy to a much better use. He could Mark his territory, claim the room as his own.

_Mine now._

He thought possessively, and growled once in a threatening way as if daring the Human to challenge him for it.

John didn't.

The Dragon whirled about, a different kind of energy taking him over and demanding that he put the excess adrenaline he had just accumulated to good use.

He had to hurry too, because he could smell other Dragons about, and his fevered mind cautioned that they could try and take the place if he didn't Claim it soon. The thought made Sherlock bare his teeth in anger.

_No._

_My room!_

_Can't have!_

 

He was fiercely glad in that moment as he bounded over, testing the lock to make sure it would hold. Good. He nodded in satisfaction. It was strong. Nothing could come in then while he set to work. It didn't really occur to him in his hazed state of mind that nothing could get _out,_ either. His instincts were beginning to take over, and they demanded that he view any protection as good protection.

 

 

John wanted to sob in relief when he felt the claws release from his neck.

Instead he just breathed more deeply, hands trembling at his sides and sweat running down his neck as he dared himself to look up through his lashes at the Dragon's agile form.

 

Its focus had slowly moved away from him, eyes sweeping over the expanse of the room with an almost nervous energy. The Dragon's eyes roved over the four walls, taking in its prison for the first time. Strangely though, it didn't seem perturbed by it. The angry, deafening snarls it had once been using had stopped almost completely, making way for a kind of trickling burble, like the Dragon wasmuttering to itself. John could hear Dragon-Tongue mixed into the strange noise, and he didn't even wince when he was abruptly dropped onto the ground. Instead he curled into a compact ball, pressing himself against the wall as he took in great shuddering breaths. The Dragon, distracted now for whatever reason, backed away from him slowly, blue eyes flicking about the room with a sort of driven impulse.

It was almost as if it wasn't so much disturbed at being held in a strange room with no windows and only one door, but _pleased._

 

But that didn't make any sense, at least to John. Then again he was Human, so he supposed Dragons thought differently. Perhaps the creature had only known the small Cages of the Kennel, and this was how it responded to a larger space compared to his past ones. The thought sent a small spark of pity flowing through John's chest, but it was tiny when compared to his overwhelming relief at his life no longer being actively threatened. He sighed as he leaned his head back against the wall, shuddering with suppressed emotion that was flowing to the surface now that the wake of adrenaline-induced bravery had passed. He struggled to get his breathing steady, tears of alleviation threatening to fall even as he watched the beast cautiously, lowering his eyes whenever the Dragon's gaze snapped back to him as if to make sure he was still a quivering mess on the floor.

 

He watched as it slowly walked over to the wall to the right, curiously sniffing the expanse of the room and _rubbing_ itself against its walls in an experimental kind of way, kind of like a giant cat. It made a small, pleased sound at whatever result it got in response, inhaling deeply along the line it had just made in the crumbling wallpaper. The beast had sort of whiskers at the end of its muzzle, and they moved as it brushed against the beaten walls.

The young man watched, fascination mixing with fear even as he slowly shuffled towards the door crab-like, just in case he had to make a quick escape. The Dragon continued its strange rubbing dance along the wall until it reached the far corner, where it stood on its hind legs and pressed its forepaws up at the spot where ceiling met wall. John winced and almost clapped his hands to his ears as a horrible screeching like nails on a chalkboard hit him as the Dragon's claws cut Marks into the corner, silvery in the concrete and thoroughly vivid and bright. When the beast stepped away, the Marks glittered with a kind of strange power that made John feel _safe_ and warm.

 

Sherlock paused once to admire his own handiwork, nodding at the little spell of protection he had used. It was only a small enchantment, and most Dragons would be able to break it, but he was proud of himself given the fact that he could barely keep his eyes open.

Then he set about to the other walls.

His instincts were being satisfied, and it felt good. Even if he wasn't feeling well, he felt an instinctual happiness at allowing his Claiming Instincts to take over, Marking his new territory with careful deliberation and attention to detail. He made sure each claw Mark was clearly visible and that his scent was rubbed over everything he couldn't scratch to pieces. It was a manic sort of energy, compulsive and compelling, and something he couldn't wholly control. His rational mind faded away, forgetting completely about the blonde Human staring at him from the far wall until he came full circle, all four corners completed.

 

John watched as the Dragon muttered something in satisfaction when it was done, noting how it limped slightly as it came to relax finally just beside its Crate.

Its energy was completely spent.

Sherlock couldn't move if he tried; he was much too sleepy now. His remaining fury melted into the walls themselves, exhaustion tugging at him, a demanding Mistress.

 

Darkness pulled at him with sordid hands, the pain in his skin begging for blissful unconsciousness that he could not deny any longer. A small part of him warned him that the Human in the corner staring at him could be dangerous still, but Sherlock couldn't quite bring himself to worry. After all, he could still hear its thoughts, and they had kept up a pleasingly steady stream of servile tones the entire time.

 

He could eat it tomorrow, he reasoned, if he felt like it. Yes, he so did love breakfast. Food in general, actually, was quite good. He hadn't been fed in quite awhile, and then it had only been rabbits. They had often been frozen, and that always left a foul taste in his mouth.

 

Though right now he really didn't really feel like eating. His stomach was doing harsh flips inside of him, and his intestines felt as if they were tying themselves into knots.

The Dragon didn't think he could eat anything, not unless it stopped the burning inside him.

Maybe if it was something cool.

Snow maybe?

He thought snow would be cool.

Or ice.

Yes, that sounded right in his mind.

Some nice ice.

Sleepily, Sherlock imagined a mountain far away, made of ice towers and delicious freezing snow.

 

John watched in utter disbelief as the beast curled around its Crate like it was the only home it had ever known, a large yawn tearing from its throat before it shifted a dreaming lavender purple, like the colour of candy floss at a fair. He watched in fascination and horrified amusement as the creature rested its muzzle against its forepaws, slitted eyes sliding closed like a giant pet as its tail came to curl about its scaly hide. He was uncomfortably aware of how he just nearly avoided being strangled to death as he rubbed at his throat, trying not to cough as he looked at the huge beast before him, clear in the light where before it had been but a shadow in The Kennels.

 

Now that the creature seemed to have settled, John could see it for what it was without fear lacing his vision. And he gaped, because he knew in that moment that he had not been expecting to care for something like this _at all._

 

_Bloody **huge.**_

 

It was his first thought, eyes tracing the lean curve of the thing's back, the spines decorating it a dark black like its claws. It was about the size of a Clydesdale horse, and John got the distinct impression as he saw the ribs that protruded predominantly from its middle that it was on the _small_ end of its weight scale. It was also long, serpentine in shape, yet not as snake-like as a Chinese Dragon. It muscles underneath the flesh, rope-like tendons that quivered with power despite a life of malnourishment and mistreatment. Its arms and legs especially held a powerful sort of quality, and its hands and feet were long and almost Human-like in the sense that they were built to grip things. They were the approximate size of dust-bin lids. Finally, there was the length of its tail and horns. Like a live snake the tail twitched even in the beasts' sleep like it had a mind of its own as it thrashed agitatedly. John curled further against the wall, unwilling to be speared alive by its whip-like power by accident. The creature's horns crested the top of its head like twin daggers, dark black and sitting between two ears that flicked in a goat-like manner at any kind of noise.

Its collar sat about its neck, a tag glinting softly in the light, the faint silver etching of a name not visible from where John crouched.He doesn't plan on getting any closer. He might have had a penchant for danger, but he was not stupid. As it was, he was still vitally aware of his mortality in the bruises he was sure were forming around his throat.

 

And yet for all of its demonic appearance, it was sleeping like a kitten before him.

The young man shook his head slowly, wondering if perhaps he had gone completely mad in the short drive over in Dodge's car.

It made more sense than _this._

That he was sitting here, watching a monstrous Dragon _sleep._

Insanity was the only logical excuse.

 

John was undecided at that moment which was more terrifying.

A monster that could pretend to be a lamb.

Or a lamb that could act just like a monster.

 

But he knew that soon he'd have to make a choice.

Whether or not he actually could bring himself to go through with it, and whether or not he could actually take care of something so impossibly, ridiculously deadly.

 

Because it was also extremely evident that for all of the creature's power and energy, the Dragon was unwell. Its ribs were like rows of shelves on its side, and John was sure that if he could touch them he could fit an entire hand in the space between. The creature's scales shifted as it slept with flashes of pained red, and there was a steady stream of foggy breath as the Dragon panted in its sleep. Then there was the arching forms of its wings, which looked if possible worse off than he had originally thought. The black, sluggish fluid that the wound had been oozing covered most of the creature's back, and spread just over its shoulder in a greasy, sickly kind of way. It looked like motor oil after it had been used.

 

The pamphlet would have nothing to say on what to do about _that_ , he was sure of that much.

 

Sighing softly to himself, John wondered if it might not be easier just to hang himself and get it over with now. He was completely incompetent with animals; he hadn't even owned a dog. He had tried to keep a cat once, but his father had found its hiding place in his closet while he had been at school and had drowned it in the creek by the forest.

He had been ten at the time.

He had been beaten over it until his back had bled with welts.

 

Since then he hadn't dared bringing any more animals across the threshold into his home. A part of him was honestly terrified. Not about getting hurt, but that the Dragon wouldn't survive under his care. That he'd accidentally kill it, or that it would refuse to eat out of spite or something like that and John wouldn't be able to do anything but watch as it slowly faded away. He curled his knees against his chest, pressing his forehead against them to stop the endless swirl of thoughts that plagued him. It was no good, because even though he closed his eyes, the past still flickered like there was a projector in his brain. Panicking would do him no good, he knew that, but it made him feel better in that moment to do so.

When people panicked they could get killed in a battle. John was normally very good at controlling his emotions so that they didn't overwhelm him, even if he couldn't lie for crap and blushed like a teenager when he was embarrassed. He had proven several times to be better than his sister, who had often gotten the switch for mouthing off until she could scarcely move from the floor.

He didn't often lash out, but now his hands balled into angry fists, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to strike out at something, to make someone bleed. It was a quick flash of unadulterated fury, and it stole his breath away with its potency.

 

However as soon as the thought crossed his mind, the Dragon shifted uneasily in its sleep. John froze, mind going blank and anger disappearing to make way once again for fear and submission. The Dragon's tail lashed restlessly for just a moment.

After a while though, the creature's muscles loosened from their tension once again, and the young man blew out a deep-seated breath of relief.

He knew most Dragons were at least somewhat telepathic around him. He had found out in training with the Army that he was what was called a _**Thrall**_ , someone extremely perceptive to the electrical brainwaves Dragons gave off naturally. However he hadn't expected the Dragon he had chosen to immediately take such _advantage_ of it, considering most of the ones he had met before had regarded his Gift with barely-concealed contempt. John himself hadn't found much use for it either, other than the fact that it made Servants look at him strangely sometimes when he went shopping for food.

 

 

It occurred to John then as he sat on the floor that it might be a good time to leave, come back with better ammunition, and possibly calm his frayed nerves with a cup of tea (probably with something a little stronger) and get his head back into the game as it were. The Clicker still lay abandoned on the floor, but he was hesitant to pick it up. A part of him recoiled at even the idea of even using it.

 

However he remembered the way the creature's claws had so easily lifted him nearly three feet off of the ground and clenched his jaw, forcing himself to be appropriately armed just in case.

He would not allow himself to use sentiment as an excuse to not be prepared properly. He was dealing with a wild animal, and John had to treat it as such. There couldn't be any mercy, not until he was absolutely sure he wouldn't get seriously wounded. It was better in the end for both he and the Dragon, as if he wound up in the hospital there was little doubt in the young man's mind of what would become of the beast. Pocketing the little metal remote, he slowly got to his feet. His eyes stayed trained on the Dragon, but it didn't stir at the sound of John's movements. It was lost in a land of feverish dreams, kicking slightly like a dog in slumber. John spared a brief moment to wonder what the creature would even  _dream of_ , but then he shook his head and got back to the task at hand.

 

Carefully, he slunk along the wall towards the door, forcing his breathing to be measured and calming the heartbeat pounding in his ears. He saw the creature's ears flick towards him, but other than that there was no response. It seemed that the beast was too lost in its own consciousness, drifting like a piece of wood on a sea that John couldn't imagine the colour of.

 

When he finally found the key in his shirt pocket and fumbled the lock open he paused, turning to look one last time at the beast curled underneath the bare bulb of light hanging from the ceiling. Like this, the creature looked somehow just a little smaller, a little less threatening. It whimpered softly in its sleep as if in pain, and John was nearly overwhelmed with how he could sense a quiet sort of sentience within it, past the animal rage he had witnessed. Softly, he closed the door behind him and turned the lock, the sound making the quietest of clicks before he tucked the key back into his pocket. Then, still leaning against the door, his legs gave out on him. He slid to the floor, silent sobs racking his body as he cried over the shreds of his sanity.

 

Then, finally accepting the loss of his mind, John Watson dragged himself to his feet, climbing up the stairs to his flat. He almost didn't notice the brown-paper package waiting for him, leaning like a visitor against the wall by the door. The young man couldn't remember sending away for anything, so he paused at the crest of the last step and stared, one blonde brow lifting in surprise. It seemed unlikely it was from anyone he knew. Harry couldn't afford to send him anything and his Father wouldn't have bothered. His only real friend was Mike, but he would have given John anything he needed to in person instead of leaving it at his flat. But perhaps it was for Mrs. Hudson or one of the other tenants?

 

He approached it like one might approach a bomb, bending down to scoop up the package and weigh it critically in his hands. It was quite heavy, John noted in surprise. It was vaguely rectangular in shape and didn't rattle as if it were a box of something. He examined the package a moment longer, noticing a slip of paper tucked into the string tying it together tastefully. When John took the little folded envelope out from its place, he could tell the make of the material was expensive. It felt crisp and weighted, and was the colour of snow. Written on the cover of it in dark green ink was his name in a neat, cursive script he didn't recognize.

 

_TO: John Hamish Watson_

 

It was the use of his middle name that caught his attention. Not many people knew his middle name, because he frankly loathed the fact that it was the first name of his Da. He rarely even used it when people asked for his full signature, and he was certain none of his friends back at his District had known it. Opening the card of paper, he saw more of the same curling script, written with impeccable eloquence and spelling that made John acutely think of opulence and royalty.

 

_Hope you find this to your Benefit._

_Take care of him._

 

_-An interested party_

 

“Interested party?”

 

The young man stared in disbelief at the card, eyebrows raised so far in surprise that John had to work to school his expression back into a face of relative calm. Again he looked this way and that, as if some person might jump out from behind the bannister of the stairs at any moment and tell him that he was part of some ridiculous game show or that they were pulling his leg. There was no one. The flats were all dead and still with night so that John felt like an intruder, standing outside of his own door. The package lay sealed in his hands, and part of the young man knew he should probably eye the strange gift with more suspicion. However the last words had caught his attention, leading John to step inside _**221 B**_ with the parcel still gripped in his fingers.

_Take care of him._

 

There was little doubt in his mind of who _'h_ _im_ _'_ was. The question was _why._

 

It would only occur to him later that the post didn't come on Sunday, and that normally any kind of package demanded a signature. John didn't really think of those things at all as he sat down at the small table in the kitchen and unwrapped the package, tearing at the brown paper as curiosity got the better of him and he couldn't wait any longer. When he was finished, he stared mystified at a heavy, leather-bound tome sitting before him, the forest-green material embossed on the front with a golden-engraved title that made absolutely no sense.

 

_**The Book Of Dragonology. A Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.** _


	5. Follow The Trail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my beta is currently away, so this might have mistakes.... however I did my best! :3
> 
> Thank you all again so much for enjoying this story! <3
> 
> Comments/kudos are adored! as are constructive criticisms :P
> 
> Also, I will be taking a hiatus soon as I move.... I will try to get one more chapter in though! :3

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

 

 **Rot Wing (Illness):** _Rot Wing is an infection that is most common when large masses of Dragons are forced to share close quarters together, and is a sort of rash that affects the sensitive skin in the webbing of the Dragon's wings. It is characterized by the "oozing" quality of the infection, the skin manifesting a thick, black, oily substance in an attempt to protect the scales underneath.  By itself it is relatively easy to cure, and is not unlike Athlete's Foot in Humans. Some tea tree oil or other drying substance will kill off the bacteria that is affecting the area, and can be applied up to three times a day until signs of infection cease. However if left too long, Rot Wing has been known to eat into the soft tissue of the wing. In these rare instances, there have been reports of subjects having difficulty flying, and in extreme cases, being permanently disabled(see page 449 for more details)._

 

 

When Sherlock awoke, it was to find that the door to his new territory had been breached. His immediate response was to rear upwards onto his feet, lips peeling back from his teeth in the beginnings of a fearsome snarl.

However the sight that greeted him as he gathered his bearings made his growls halt and die before they passed his throat.

There, sitting in front of him innocently, was a frozen ice-cube that was just beginning to melt right in front of his nose. At first, he thought that perhaps he was still dreaming, and he frowned at the product of his imagination in annoyance and willed it to disappear so it would stop taunting him. It had happened before in the Kennels. He'd imagine food or drink and his mind would succumb to such weakness as to picture it materializing in front of him.

However, when the cube of ice didn't fade into his mind or change into some strange colour, he began to entertain the idea that it might be real.

And then he _really_ looked at it with all of the shock and adoration such a glorious thing deserved.

 

Before his more rational brain could warn him about the dangers of eating strange things in strange lands, he shrunk down into his half-Human form, fingers snatching the cool object and popping the delicious treat into his mouth greedily. He moaned in unabashed relief as the immediate soothing sensation of it as it slid down his throat, the sound low and needy and completely shameless in its volume.

 

Gods, it was heaven.

 

He bit into it to allow the shards of ice to melt more quickly so it would cool him faster. It was like a dying man in the desert finally finding an oasis to drink from, and the Dragon's eyes fluttered closed in ecstasy before they snapped open again to see the other ice-cube sitting for him just a little farther away. His pupils widened in cat-like interest.

He couldn't believe his _luck._

Like he was a Hatchling again still unable to control himself, his tail starting wagging in childlike excitement.

In fact, as Sherlock's eyes swept over the room, he saw an entire _trail_ of ice, leading around his Crate and out the door. It disappeared from view around the corner, but gave a promise of reward. Licking his chapped lips, the Dragon reached for another one, the cool sensation on his fingers mercifully sweet as he brought it to his lips and sucked on the second cube in contemplative thought.

A part of him wanted him to just follow the trail, eat each and every delicious frozen treat to help bring down the burning fever inside of him and not question gifts out loud. However the logical part of his brain pointed out to him that ice cubes did not just grow from the ground _obviously_ , and that even if they did they most certainly would not grow in a curving single-file line out into the beyond. He knew a trap when he saw one, even with his brain half-fried and in distress. His eyes narrowed into calculating slits, noting that the Human had vanished at some point in the night.

Curious that he hadn't noticed.

His senses must have been truly muddled then the night before.

It was true he could barely remember anything of how he came to be here, or why he wasn't dead in the first place. He had almost been _certain_ the Handlers had talked about putting him down....

But everything thing was hazy and ghost-like, indistinct like the blurred lens of a magnifying glass brought too close to one's face.

 

Inhaling deeply, he could smell the faint soapy-warm scent of the blonde man he vaguely remembered lingering about the trail of cubes, confirming his suspicions about a trap.

He wondered if the man thought him to be some kind of _idiot_ , if he thought he'd fall for it so easily. Really, a child could build a better plan.

Sherlock snorted to himself in disgust even as he looked again at the trail with longing building a tight knot in his stomach.

 

His hands scratched at his collar roughly in thought, eyeing the ice-cubes with distrust as he debated with himself whether or not to take the rather obvious bait. On the one hand, it was evident that this was an optional choice. The young man hadn't forced him anywhere by using the clicking thing, nor had he implied any sort of violence towards Sherlock unless his life was directly threatened. He hadn't even used the zapping tools, and _everyone_ always used those at least if only to make him understand his place.

 

He shuffled a little closer towards the door automatically, freezing just at the threshold to take another ice-cube and pop it into his mouth with gusto. He chewed for a moment, seeing that down the hall more of them glittered wetly under the dim lighting, promising relief from being so uncomfortably warm. He caught his infernal tail swaying again lightly, urging him onwards with bright and totally unfounded hopes of a soft bed and cool water to drink. However Sherlock refused his thoughts to go down that road, as he'd only be disappointed and twice as miserable later on if he did.

His jaw hardened, and he crossed his arms over his chest in resolute refusal.

No.

He would not play into this game.

He was above begging like some dog for treats _or_ sweets, now matter how delicious and lovely.

 

His stubbornness lasted for about fifteen seconds before a strange and wonderful smell drifted past Sherlock's nose, perking his interest reluctantly. Something greasy and fatty and _delectable_ was wafting from upstairs, his sensitive nose catching the scent even though it was separated by walls and wood. His mouth watered, wing-tips twitching as the foreign smell of some kind of fried meat tantalized his olfactory senses and made them tingle with desire. His stomach clenched, screaming at him to move forward. He could have been drooling and he probably wouldn't have noticed, the flavour on his tongue so foreign and yet so impossibly wonderful that his eyes widened and the softest of whines pulled themselves from his throat.

He swallowed firmly and came back to himself. At least as much as he could.

 

Still, he was reluctant to leave his newly made territory. His instincts told him that another Dragon could come along and take it if he left so soon. However his logical voice whispered to him that his senses were being stupid and that no other Dragon would actively do so unless ordered to by their Masters. Still, he crouched next to the door and breathed a thin line of frost across the entrance into the hardwood, making a visible warning for intruders both Human and Dragon alike to watch their step.

It would have to do.

He was already trembling in want.

He could resist the tempting trail of cool ice no longer.

 

Sherlock scurried forward, abandoning his better reasoning just a bit so he could fully enjoy the sensation of not only filling his stomach but of cooling down. Each bite brought a brief moment of sated relief, glassy and wondrous. Each bite left him wanting more desperately than he had before. A low, needy sound whimpered from his lips in response. The ice-cube trail led him up a flight of stairs, and though he kept a sharp ear and nose out for any sign of Humans, he didn't encounter any. His internal clock guessed it was probably about five in the morning, so he supposed it wasn't that unusual. Each step had a cube on it waiting patiently for him, so he spent quite awhile crouching on them and took stock of which ones creaked and which didn't for potential use later on (The tenth and the fourth). All the while the smell of cooking meat got headier and stronger, pulling the Dragon along more effectively than any sort of leash towards the door at the top of the steps. It was like the long-lost note of a song he could almost recall. Sherlock felt _compelled_ to come closer, his senses begging for him to indulge in reckless abandon for a change. It was in some ways more demanding than any kind of physical torture.

He kept it in iron control, creeping upwards slowly and refusing to break into a run, but he still couldn't stop his stomach from protesting its emptiness loudly or his nostrils from flaring with desire.

 

When he reached the top step, he saw that a black door was open for him, more ice-cubes inside. He looked at the gold-embossed letters at the centre of the door, pausing as he breathed in deeply the smell of a space lived in. The blonde man's scent was saturated into the floorboards, warm woodsy smells and tea with a soap undercurrent that only came with regular baths and good meals. There was no trace of acidic aggression in its flavour, only calm.

 

Sherlock paused, uncertain of crossing into someone else's territory. On the one hand, he could feel the temptation to enter like a physical pull in his gut, yet his honor demanded that he be invited in, even if it was a Human's domain. After all, he was no “savage” even if his senses told him otherwise. It would be like someone just entering _his_ new territory without permission, a thought that made him glance nervously back down the stairs. He lingered in the doorway, unable to move forward yet pinned at just the edge, muttering lowly in indecision under his breath. Dragon-Tongue curses flowed over his lips effortlessly without second thought. His voice was wild and rusted with strain. There was silence, heavy and pregnant as he listened for any noise other than the dull crackle of something cooking in the distance.

 

He nearly jumped when a soft voice sounded from somewhere inside the flat, calling out to him in Human-Speak calmly and quietly. His accent is as clear as his scent, and there is a lightness to his tone. Cautious.... but friendly.

“You can come in, Dragon. I don't mind.”

 

It was all Sherlock's tightly-strung senses needed. Unable to stop himself any longer, the Dragon warily stepped over the threshold of _**221 B**_ , on alert for any kind of danger even as he popped another ice-cube into his mouth and _crunched_.

 

****

John found himself dressed in a woollen jumper, jeans and a blush-pink apron that he borrowed from Mrs. Hudson at five in the morning. He stared at the pan of bacon that was currently sizzling hotly before him on the stove, one hand resting absently in his pocket. The other was wound about the handle of fryer as he waited patiently for the Dragon downstairs to catch wind of its scent and make its way up the stairs.

 

Yup.

That's how it was.

Just a regular morning for John Watson, amateur Dragon Behaviourist.

He might've laughed if he wasn't aware of how royally screwed he was likely to be.

He felt like he stood a better chance of being eaten than the bacon.

 

Smiling to himself at the morbid joke, he chuckled mirthlessly under his breath as he flipped the food with an expert toss of the pan and a flick of his wrist.

A trick he had learned back at home.

Saved time.

It gave a gratifying pop and sizzle in response as the food turned and settled, the bacon curling predictably at the edges like crinoline on the skirt of a dress. He imagined it was laughing at him as it snapped and crackled, telling him off for the dark circles under his eyes and the cramp that had developed in his left hand slightly from writing so many notes. His spiral-bound notebook lay on the coffee table, cream pages now filled with his Doctor's script.

He supposed if it was laughing at him, then he probably deserved it.

 

He had spent the rest of the night up reading.

 

It turned out the book he had been so _mysteriously_ gifted with was highly useful. It was also quite possibly highly _illegal._ Actually, John was _certain_ that the fact that it was entitled as a _Memoir_ made it the kind of illegal that got people deported to third world countries, never to be seen or heard from again. There were strict laws about the kind of literature that was to be available to the public, and the soldier had known instinctively from first glance that this book was not on the list. England in particular was extremely choosy about what its citizens were allowed to read, and John had never before laid eyes on a name like _Mycroft Holmes_. With little reading material available to him as a child might have supposed under different circumstances that he had just never read a book by said author, but from page one those cream pages had spoken about fifty kinds of blasphemy. The kind of blasphemy where people spread rumours of your demise, and your sister wondered what happened to her “dear sweet Johnny” even while not looking at the suspicious circumstances of his disappearance..... lest she be threatened to be made to 'disappear' as well.

Because for it to be a Memoir, it would mean that the book would have had to be written by.....

 

Well.

He didn't want to consider it too closely.

After all, it had only been incriminating to _him_ the moment he had decided in a fit of psychosis to actually _read_ it.

In the end, he had only been able to resist his curiosity and desperation for so long before he had cracked the book open to the first page, admiring with a sort of distant horror the beauty of the clean swirling border that greeted him in golden ink on the inside. It was an elaborate sort of Celtic knot-work design, intricately detailed and all connected and interwoven with each other like the branches of a climbing vine. John had run his finger over it and marveled at the texture under his palm, noting in surprise that it was hand-inked.

He whistled lowly in disbelief.

_Well, at least I'll be able to say that the art alone was worth it when they arrest me.  
_

That glum thought comforted him briefly before he pressed on.

 

Scribed in an old-fashioned sort of lettering, John found the Table of Contents, appearing to be handwritten and impeccably organized. Above it, written in bold ink, was a single definition surrounded by two hand-inked Wyverns, their tails being devoured by one another as they formed a ring about the paragraph.

 

_**Dragonology(Noun):** The science of Dragons, it is a practice long forgotten in time. I myself am one of the last Dragonologists, though we once ranked in the thousands. It is the pursuit of knowledge in the area of Dragons, having stretched over a wide field from biology and behaviour to the physics of flight and the chemistry of Magic. Though not recognized openly by the government, I believe the science of Dragonology is the missing step between recognizing the motives and actions behind the modern-day Dragon, and truly understanding them. With this book, I hope to enlighten to the reader our true natures, and show the average Human that there is much more than meets the eye to their friendly neighbourhood servant._

 

_-M.H_

 

“Sounds like some sort of joke.”

 

The young man had muttered skeptically, but hadn't protested further as he delved deeper into the vast pages of the book. After all, who would make something so complicated for something like a lark?

Pouring into the cream-tinted pages, John soon found himself completely absorbed within seconds. his legs carried him to the tired-looking but comfortable chair that he loved so much and sat himself down for the long haul.

He had read the entire first chapter before he even realized what he was doing.

The soldier was utterly enraptured by the detailed and delicate drawings of a Dragon's anatomy, from everything to the muscular structure of a Chinese to the finite connection of joints that connected the bones of the wings of an English. He told himself that when he finally roused himself into focus that it was a Doctor's interest, nothing more, but soon found himself flipping through chapters. He read everything from behavioural issues, to language, to how to raise newborn Hatchlings. He only stopped to make himself a cuppa, and even then he read as he walked about the flat.

 

The book was a _thousand_ times more informative than any pamphlet he had ever seen, and provided the answers to hundreds of questions that John hadn't even _considered_ asking until he read about them. By the end of the night, he found that he had learned more about Dragons in a single evening than he had in the _entire_ training course the month before. He had barely even scratched the surface of the book before he could feel dawn beginning to shine through the curtains in a muted grey through the windows. When John finally closed the book, he felt a small, new-found confidence cautiously blooming inside of his chest, growing from the ashes of despair and defeat from last night.

 

Maybe the situation wasn't so hopeless after all.

Then he had to try very hard to keep a small smile from his lips, trying to work its way past his earlier cynicism.

 

Still, he had to hustle if he wanted to be prepared before the Dragon woke up. Apparently, the creatures tended to be primarily nocturnal, but because his had fallen asleep because it was ill it would most likely wake irritable.

Probably not a good thing.

Predictable with his sort of luck.

So.

John would have to resort to shameless bribery to sweeten its mood.

Not a huge deal, he had done it all the time with Harry via red liquorice sticks and soda pop.

 

He wound up rousing Mrs. Hudson from her bed, apologizing in advance before he asked her for any bags of ice cubes she could spare. Luckily, she only seemed a little tetchy as she led him about in her pale white nightie. She gave him six full bags, even while emphatically telling him that she was _'not his housekeeper after all, so don't expect this all the time'_. The young man kissed her on the cheek in utter adoration as he spun away to set to work.

 

It felt good to have a steady goal in mind, a battle plan. John always worked better under orders, and now his mind soldiered on in quick and list-like fashion, crossing things off with precision as he set about doing them. First, he snuck back to **_221 C_** , trailing a liberal ice-cube trail for the Monster (taken from _page 54 on_ ' _How to assimilate your Dragon into a new environment', Section C-Northerns_ )

 

Next, he padded to the bath, flicking on the light and turning on the cold water. It created a soft thundering noise of liquid hitting porcelain, mixing with sharp little _clinks_ as he dumped his second bag of ice into the mix. He only turned it off after the tub was half-full, dipping his hand in and shivering as it came away dripping and ice-cold.

Well below freezing.

Perfect.

This way, he could convince the thing to not only bathe, but help lower its fever ( _Page 77 on 'Dealing with overheating in Northern species')._

 

To make doubly sure, he also continued the trail of ice-cubes all the way to the bathtub, ensuring that the Dragon wouldn't mistake his motives or intent in case it was dizzy or confused. Normally, Dragons were almost telepathic they were so sensitive to changes in emotions, especially around John. However his had a fever, so it was quite possible the Dragon wouldn't be able to sense things with the same dexterity. He'd also have to take a closer look at that wing to determine what kind of sickness was afflicting the Dragon's skin, but that could be dealt with later on if he gained the creature's tolerance.

For now, it looked like something called _Rot Wing._

If.

Right now the main goal was to make sure the Dragon wouldn't die on him. Which if he didn't succeed here, he very well might according to the book.

 

It was strange, how a package delivered to him only a night before could suddenly become a sort of Bible to keep checking up on. Even as John broke out two packets of his best bacon into the frying pan, he checked the pages for _'tips on how to get your cranky Dragon to eat a decent meal'._

 

As the clock ticked on, his heart began to pound in his throat. John suddenly hoped, intensely and desperately, that he hadn't been scammed. That this wasn't some sort of cosmic joke on him, and that he hadn't been taken for a ride. Because if he was wrong, if the book was a lie, then he honestly wasn't sure what he would do.

There was no plan B, no secondary action.

He had no right path versus wrong path to take.

He stood at no crossroads.

There was only one direction.

Forward or bust.

No.

There was one other option.... but it was one he didn't want to take.

He knew what he would be _forced_ to do, and it was such a horrible thought that the young man shivered violently and nearly burned himself on the stove-top because of his visceral disgust at the idea.

 

John kept his ears strained for any kind of movement from below, licking a nervous tongue over his lips and hearing nothing at first but the sizzling of bacon crackling in the pan. Then, ever so quietly, he heard a small _crunch_ of an ice cube being bitten into by sharp teeth. The young man had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from _whooping_ in triumph, keeping his eyes dutifully trained on the cooking food before him. Feigning focus on the task.

Slowly, he listened as the crunching noises became gradually louder, followed by the familiar muttering burble of the creature talking to itself. From the tone, it sounded like it was having a heated inner debate, even as out of the corner of his eye John caught a glimpse of a happy jade-green tail wagging animatedly at the doorway as the Dragon paused at the frame of the flat. Though the young man didn't dare turn his head, he saw from his peripheral vision the hesitation of the creature as it paused at the threshold of the door. Having shrunk down to its half-human form so that John could see those pale blue eyes shimmer in suspicion under those dark curls and his nostrils flare, The Dragon took in the smells of the flat. The soldier noted clinically how  the Dragon's eyes flicked to the kitchen unerringly, scenting the flavour of bacon that is coasting in the air with languid appreciation. When he breathed in, the protruding expanse of his ribs heaved unhealthily. He exhaled frigid fog.

 

John almost smiled as he saw the darting of a pink scrap of tongue swipe the creature's upper lip in desire. Its wings were quivering in indecision as it looked with barely-veiled want at not only the promise of food but at the continuation of ice-cubes trailing past the door. Still, it sat on its haunches, not quite willing to move forward. John frowned, wondering in his head what could be wrong. He had read that usually food for a starved Dragon would lure it more than anything else, and that Northern's especially would desire something cold. He hadn't had any ice-cream readily available (not to mention it would have ruined the hardwood) and a small part of him wondered if maybe it would have been a better choice. However he couldn't change it now, and he wracked his brains to try and figure out some way to get the Dragon over the proverbial fence of the doorway.

His mind flashed unwillingly towards last night, when the Dragon had rubbed itself all along the walls of the room and Marked the corners. He had read in The Book that it had been a sign of territorialism, something common in Red Card cases in general. It was a dominance issue, a display of power.

Yes, the creature was territorial.... in fact he had probably Claimed the basement flat with such ferocity that poor Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be able to sell the room out to anyone ever again lest she have to explain the claw marks. The Dragon had used his scent, had wanted to make sure that no one would enter a space that he perceived as _his._

 

Slowly, it dawned on him, slow and trickling in his head.

Oh.

_Oh._

Manners. Dragons were apparently really picky about them. John had been aware of it, even in the way Cerioth had spoken in the car to the other Dragons when they had been driving home from the Kennels. Was the creature hovering there..... because it wanted _permission_ to enter a territory it didn't own?

Softly, John drew a hesitant breath. If he was wrong, he might very well send the Dragon bolting back to its room. However, if he was correct....

“You can come in, Dragon. I don't mind.”

 

He said it softly, but the creature's head tilted towards him with sharpness, indicating it had heard the young man's words clearly. Slowly, John watched out of the corner of his eye as the creature took one last uneasy look about it, as if it was expecting some kind of trap. Its scales flashed uncertain orange.Then, tentatively it reached out one pale and long Humanoid hand, creeping forward past the door to snatch another ice-cube from the hardwood and putting it in its mouth. John couldn't help his grin then, because an indescribable feeling bubbled up in his chest at that moment.

It was a small victory, but he had felt like he had just run a marathon.

 

_One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind._

 

He grinned to himself, flipping the bacon onto a plate.

In that moment, John felt like he could be invincible.

 

****

Of course, for every step forward, there would inevitably always come to be two steps one would be forced to take back.

The Dragon followed the trail of ice-cubes with a single-minded determination and speed, until it came past the entrance to the kitchen. There it hovered uncertainly, torn between following the source of the delicious-smelling meat and finding out where the trail of ice-cubes led to. He could see the outline of the young man standing between him and the plate of glistening fried food, his teeth bared in defensive suspicion as he lowered himself into a slow and coiled crouch. John, to his credit didn't turn around, even though his neck prickled in warning that a predator was stalking him. He kept his voice low and conversational even though he wasn't entirely sure if the creature understood him.

 

“I'm giving you a choice. You will get both in the end, but would you like to eat first, or have a nice cool bath?”

 

The Dragon tilted its head at both the words _eat_ and _cool bath_ , blue eyes slitting in interest as it continued its stream of commentary to itself. Dragon-Tongue was a strange, purring and clicking sort of language, and John found there was an almost therapeutic edge to the mumbling. It was like a comforting rumble right by his ear. As if the Dragon didn't even realize he was doing it. Though the creature flinched violently at his voice, it didn't run away. Instead it continued to eye the bacon hungrily, gluing itself to the entrance of the doorway even as John risked turning around slowly and deliberately. He kept his eyes trained on the floor, making sure his thoughts echoed submission even as he placed the plate down onto the tile and slid it a couple of inches forward in the creature's direction. All the while, he kept his voice low and calm.

“I won't hurt you. Go on and take it if you want, it's yours. All yours. I'm giving it to you.”

 

And then, so quietly that even Sherlock strained to hear him, John added his name.

“I'm called John. John Watson.”

 

Then he sat himself slowly down in the far corner of the kitchen just like he had in _**221 C**_ , becoming immobile and staring calmly at his lap as he sat cross-legged against the back of the fridge.

 

Sherlock didn't know what to make of this strange Human, that didn't refer to himself as 'Master' like the others did that had tried to break him. In fact, most things the strange man had done so far had gone against all of the Dragon's past experiences, leaving him feeling strangely off-balance and desperately confused. He clicked to himself in irritation of the discrepancies.

So far, this _Jawn_ , as that was the closest he could come to pronouncing the Human's name at the moment, had acted distinctly not-Human since he had met him. Not only had he not used the Clicking Thing to discipline Sherlock for hurting him (because even from here Sherlock could see the bruises on the young man's throat, like purple bands wrapping about his trachea delicately) but he had so far just given him a territory that was _his._ Now he was offering him _food_ , and not that horrible kibble he had been forced to eat in the Kennels. Not even half-frozen rabbit had this kind of promise behind it.

No, he could _smell_ the richness and the flavour of it, even as he stared at the plate fixedly. It did not make _sense_ , and Sherlock couldn't help but feel as if he'd wandered into some kind of faerie land. Was it possible he was just having a very vivid dream? To make sure, he brought his arm to his lips and bit the inside of his wrist hard enough that it began to bleed. He startled when he heard the Human make a small, distressed noise, staring at the copper liquid that streamed down his wrist with panic. Hastily, Sherlock licked over the wound, sealing it shut with his saliva before the Human could punish or yell at him. Still he waited, just to make sure that the man wouldn't reach into his pocket and reveal the little silver remote and point it at him.

 

When no attack came, the Dragon couldn't wait any longer. He dove forward in a burst of speed, snatching the plate and receding once again to crouch just outside the kitchen, digging ravenously into his meal. There was only a little of the bacon, and part of that was by design. John was fairly sure the Dragon hadn't eaten a proper meal in quite awhile, and he was worried that if he fed it too much it would cause it to be sick. He watched as the beast devoured the meat with zeal, licking even the crumbs off of the plate with a searching tongue. When it was done it smacked its lips and looked at him with an almost tentatively hopeful expression. Very, very slowly it pushed the plate back across the floor, the dish moving along the smooth hardwood to come and rest just at John's feet. The creature wagged its tail in a whacking sort of motion, and its scales across its nude form were a hungry sort of red-pink, almost like the colour of bacon itself. The young man almost laughed, feeling suddenly like he was looking at an overly-eager puppy sitting at the edge of his kitchen. However he ignored the wide-blue eyes the creature was making at him, turning to him firmly this time and making a motion to scoot with his hands.

 

“Bath first, then you can have more if you think you can handle it.”

 

It was like his words flipped a switch.

Immediately, the rather cute expression melted into a snarl, the Dragon's spine bristling defensively as it mistook John's chastising tone for anger. The young man instantly froze, lifting his hands above his head in a sign of passiveness. Still the creature curled into a sharp ball like an angered cat, its eyes narrowed to slits as growls tore from his throat and made the walls vibrate with their power. Thoughts once again circling calm tones, John searched the kitchen for something suitably distracting to draw the creature out of its fury. His eyes landed on an abandoned bag of ice he had left on the table, and slowly he reached over to take a cube out of the package. John felt rather than saw the sudden shift in energy. Anger slipping into a kind of suspicious curiosity. Sherlock flinched slightly when the young man lifted his hand in a fist, but soon leaned forward when he saw that something was held in its fingers. When he saw the ice-cube his fever became apparent to himself once again, the heat making him pant slightly just at the thought. His head turned unwillingly to the trail of melting cubes that disappeared down the hall of the flat. For just a moment, a strange image of footprints in snow flickered across the Dragons' mind, he shook his head clear and turned back towards the Human called 'Jawn'. His growls lessened as slowly, the Human came forward with the piece of ice in his hands.

“Easy now.”

 

The young man cautioned, placing it a few inches away from the Dragon-man's hands as he crept closer. It was the most intimate proximity he had experienced with the creature before that hadn't ended in violence. Already John's neck was beginning to prickle with sweat. The creature kept up its stream of growls, but they softened as he licked his lips thirstily and eyed the cube before him. His scales glittered cautious vermilion as he tentatively reached for the gift, eyeing the soldier warily before him and scanning him for the slightest indication of attack. Again the Human stayed slack and relaxed, balancing on the balls of his feet as he sat back on his haunches. A mimic of Sherlock's own form. When the Dragon snatched the ice-cube this time, he found himself rewarded with a word he had never heard used in connotation with himself before.

 

“Good. That's good....” And John trailed off, staring at the collar around the Dragon's neck and reading the name inscribed on it.

 

“...Sherlock?”

He watched as the creature startled visibly, curling away from the sound of his own name in someone else's mouth. The Dragon spat at him with slitted eyes and abruptly turned, waltzing away to the trail of ice-cubes after deeming him no threat. However his tail was still wagging, betraying his silent contentment. Its swishing form flashed cloud blue-grey. John felt a small smile tugging his lips, and he grinned widely as he muttered the name in his head.

“Sherlock.... Sherlock the Dragon.”

 

He was rewarded with the sound of a half-man half-beast creature diving into the tub of ice-cubes, a happy chirruping burbling from inside the bathroom. John laughed under his breath, listening to the strange chittering noises the creature made to itself and feeling not unlike a parent hearing his child speak and walk for the very first time.

_Though if child-rearing is this difficult, then it might be for the best after all that I'm not in a serious relationship right now._

 

The Dragon listened in confusion to the peals of almost hysterical giggles coming from the kitchen as he dipped his head under the cool crest of water, wondering at the insanity of Humans even as his fever was washed away by the sweet kiss of frozen ice.


	6. To Walk Through Fire Unburned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this is in all likelihood the last chapter before I go on a temporary hiatus :)  
> I will be back around mid to late August, as I am moving across the ocean so wifi will be limited XD
> 
> I WILL write chapters though even without internet, I just won't be able to post... :/
> 
> Please comment or kudo, and let me know what you think! :3
> 
> thanks to my fantastic beta Iolre! <3 you make my writing so much better :D  
> enjoy everyone!

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Hygiene For Dragons (Northerns):** _Being a subspecies with extremely delicate internal body temperatures, many new_

_owners find themselves asking questions about their Dragon's grooming habits. Though Dragons are normally extremely clean creatures (at least in terms of personal hygiene), there are times and circumstances in which an person might find themselves having to groom their Dragon for them. For Northerns, it is always a good rule of thumb to start with an ice bath. If the Dragon is suffering from illness, it will bring down any kind of fever, and if they are injured, it will help numb the wound. Pour about four large bags of ice cubes into a regular-sized tub until it is about half-full. Then, ask your Dragon to shift into their 'Human Form' (For more information see page 566). If your Dragon cannot or will not shift, you will have to get creative in your bathing methods. I would suggest using a tear-free kids' shampoo, something nice-smelling to please your Dragon's sensitive nose. Peppermint is always a favourite among Northerns, perhaps because it bears a resemblance to the smell a mother Dragon of their species will secrete when their child is distressed. The key to a smooth bathing time for all is to be respectful of your Dragon's boundaries and not push past them. Like Humans, many are prideful and hate the idea of getting any kind of help. Try to be as accommodating as you can, and yet still maintain a sense of control._

 

 

 

John left the Dragon to his own devices for some time, cooking and eating a few strips of bacon as he leaned against the kitchen counter-top, lost in thought. He drummed his fingers against his thighs in a vague beat resembling some pop-sounding show tune he had heard long ago as he stared into space.

 

He had approximately three weeks until he was going to be shipped to a base along with Mike and hundreds of other soldiers, each accompanying a heavily-scaled weapon disguised as a Servant. It was ridiculous, how people fooled themselves into thinking that their Dragon house-pet was a tame domestic creature instead of a wild animal. Even the military deluded themselves, pretending they were the ones in control of a War they were all losing. John smirked morbidly. It was a wonder; the young man thought privately, that most deaths happened on the battlefield. Why the Dragons didn't just rebel was beyond him, but perhaps it was because they were caught by the illusion as well. They had so long been told that they were beneath Humans, that they were savages, that they had become savage in kind.

 

He wondered if the government actually trusted their theories to actually resemble real life – not that said theories took into account the fact that they were dealing with living bombs just _waiting_ for the worst time to explode.

But then again, he supposed that the government didn't exactly care what happened to the war fodder, as long as they took down a few enemies when they finally blew. There was a time when John trusted the higher powers in charge, but those days had ended for him when he was fairly young. Growing up in a slum district tended to make you see fairly quickly just how honest the government was when they were forced to do their dirty laundry.

 

In the bathroom, loud splashing noises could be heard. John figured the floor was probably soaking wet by now, as his new Draconian housemate seemed determined to spill half of his bath all over the tiles. He rubbed at his face tiredly and sighed, figuring he'd probably have to apologize to Mrs. Hudson for that. Yet another thing on John's long list of _'things to improve upon so I don't wind up being hated by my neighbours and/or landlady'_.

 

It seemed that list was getting disturbingly longer the more time he spent thinking. To help remedy that issue, John set the kettle to boil. Nothing like a cuppa to stop his thoughts from spiraling out of control. The comforting sound of the water set to bubbling filled the kitchen, partially muffling the commotion going on in the next room over.

It distracted John enough that he didn't think about how he'd have to somehow mix soap into the equation to thoroughly clean the Dragon. Or that eventually, he'd be forced to get close enough to him to treat his wing. There had been so much grime covering the creature's skin that his complexion had been more grey than white, though the fever may have been partly to blame.

 

Most of all, it distracted John from murmuring the creature's name, letting it roll off of his tongue in curiosity. Like pressing against a new gap in his mouth where a tooth had once been, strange and compelling.

 

_Sherlock._

 

The book for all its helpfulness, was strangely silent on how to deal with the tentative fondness that was already developing for the unique burbling noises that purred throughout the house.

 

****

He was sure that he had died. That he; Sherlock of all people, had somehow ended up in someone's good graces above. That the Spirits had decided to let him live in the tiny and beautiful universe that was the tile bathroom of _**221 B.**_

(Not that he really believed in such things, though Dragon Gods seemed more sensible to him than the Human's version of a deity.)

 

That could be the only explanation, because he had never felt so good before in his life. His stomach was halfway filled to bursting (though it still urged him to eat more of that delicious fried meat), he could feel his fever going down, and the freshest welts on his back and legs had long ago gone numb and had begun scabbing over with his speedy healing abilities. He dipped his head underneath the crest of the water again, reveling in the way his tangled curls worked themselves apart before coming back together. When he rose for breath after an eternity of floating just beneath the surface, he inhaled so deeply that his ribs creaked with pressure.

 

He was so happy that he barely noticed when the water started to turn from translucently clear to muddied and red-brown. The first of many layers of dirt was working itself free from his skin, and it tinged the water an ugly shade somewhere between caked blood and sickly green vomit as he cupped it in his clawed hands in idle speculation. Sherlock noticed that over time, the ice around him started to melt. His wings stretched outwards on either side of him, cramped but not uncomfortable as he scooped the last remaining cubes into his mouth greedily. Their slushy flavour was still tantalizing. Waste not want not, even if they were slightly gritty.

 

The Dragon was startled when he heard the distinct sound of shuffling from outside the open bathroom door, and his eyes slit as he curled himself into the furthest corner of the tub and let loose a warning, guttural growl. The noise reverberated off the bathroom walls like the rumbling of an earthquake, and John froze just on the threshold of the door. He loudly cleared his throat, summoning up his courage to continue forward.

Though he had been known back at home for being extremely skilled at going places unheard and unseen, he had forgotten how sensitive a Dragon's hearing could be. Keeping his voice low and calm, he decided to go with the choice game again, where he gave Sherlock two options. It seemed the creature responded better when given choices or when orders were phrased as requests. At the very least it unbalanced him enough that he didn't turn into a shredding machine with the sole purpose of killing one John Watson.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he stepped into full view of the doorway, holding a plastic bottle of shampoo and some more strips of bacon on a plate. He was determined not to tremble as he clicked his jaw, standing soldier-straight, but not imposingly so. Still Sherlock reared backwards, nearly slipping before righting himself properly.

For a creature that looked like it should be effortlessly graceful, John found the Dragon could be terribly clumsy at times, not unlike a colt still trying to get control of its overly long limbs. The thought made him have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

 

“It's all right, easy. I'm not going to come in I promise. This space is yours right now, though not permanently!”

He added the last part as an afterthought, as Sherlock's eyes flicked towards the walls almost eagerly as if he might like to Mark them. The Dragon snorted under his breath at the panicked look on the young man's face, having not considered claiming the space _too_ seriously.

 

“We'll.....we'll have to share this space, though not at the same time.” John mistook the dark look that had flashed in Sherlock's eyes for jealousy of territory, and rushed to reassure him. It was strange, but he felt he was already getting better at reading the moody creature's emotional swings. It was like following a slightly off-kilter compass. John was growing determined to ensure that the metaphorical ship sailed safely into harbour without further storms.

“You have a choice. You can use the shampoo to scrub the dirt out of your hair by yourself.... or if you want I can help you.... If I help you though there will be no complaining or biting or _spitting_ frost at me.... and you'll get more bacon for your patience....”

 

He held up the plate invitingly, hoping that he wasn't being too forced or forward. He needed Sherlock to get used to having his personal space invaded, at least so John could get a proper look at that infection. Short time meant he had to push, but he didn't want to break any tentative agreement they had already come to. If he accidentally shattered the Dragon's already fragile truce with him, then John was absolutely certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would not get another chance. The cool distrust in Sherlock's eyes as he swept his gaze over him made John shiver, feeling as though he was being pierced straight to his bones.

 

Sherlock wasn't a stupid Hatchling. He knew when asking was really just polite demanding. Yet strangely, he found he didn't find this 'Jawn' quite so irritating as he gave him the supposed 'options' to pick from. On the one hand, the Dragon absolutely despised physical contact. It made his skin crawl, bad memories resurfacing and leaving it difficult for him to regain his composure when he closed his eyes and pictured the past. Yet he also knew he had no idea how to drain or refill the tub, as the mechanics were quite lost on him since he had never seen a faucet before this closely. He was sure he could figure it out, but it would probably require a fair bit of time and splashing, and he wasn't sure just how patient this Human was. It was quite possible that if he took too long he would be beaten, and though that soft face didn't seem like the type for unnecessary cruelty, there was a firmness in 'Jawn' that was hidden under his caretaker veil. Sherlock was not yet sure what kind of steel it was, but if it turned out to be the volatile type...

Well, he'd be on guard.

 

Weighing the options heavily in his mind, the Dragon then took into account the promise of more food. If Sherlock had known John better, he would have spotted the clever bluff in an instant. John had no intention of letting the creature starve, but he counted on Sherlock's distrust of him in this case, as it made it easier to lie. It was perhaps underhanded, but the soldier couldn't quite bring himself to guilty as he saw the Dragon's eyes narrow in hesitant acceptance.

The fact was, Sherlock's stomach was almost pulling itself into knots just staring at the promising plate. He had the ghost of the flavour still on his lips, and like a particularly potent poison, one taste wasn't enough. He wanted more, and the Dragon realized that perhaps he has been played into a rather genius catch twenty-two. Sherlock peered more closely at the unassuming Human before him, wondering if perhaps he was staring at some kind of strange genius underneath the rather ugly oatmeal jumper in which the soldier was clad.

There had to be a price for this kindness.

He just hadn't figured it out yet.

There must be _something_ this Human wanted, and as Sherlock tried to analyse the answer, he found a frustratingly blank wall. The soldier showed no desire for anything except being able to approach him, and Sherlock didn't _understand_.

 

There was a give and take in everything. Pain cancelled out pleasure. Pleasure muffled pain. Food was traded for hunger, and hunger called for nutrition in kind. Whips were the exchange for defiance, and rebellion was rewarded with blood.

Life was cancelled out by death.

Trust only came with trust in kind, and Sherlock definitely did not _trust_ John Watson.

There was no exchange to be had, because they had no contract. He was a crack in the Human's otherwise complete life, and he was rapidly spider-webbing himself outwards, determined to bring John Watson's castle tumbling down. And the soldier should be retaliating, should be fighting back.

He _should_ be giving Sherlock more angry energy to justify his bitterness, his defiance.

 

So why was he being _trusted_ to not hurt him?

Why would a soldier _willingly_ risk bringing bodily harm to himself just to care for the likes of him?

 

It made no sense.

 

 

John could feel the Dragon was retreating back into his calculated stare again, the sensation prickling the hair on the back of his neck. He refused to lower his gaze from those cold irises, and he smiled nervously.

 

He could've sworn the Dragon actually _rolled his_ _eyes_ in response.

 

_Nope._

Sherlock thought.

_He's an idiot after all. My mistake._

 

Still, a more interesting idiot than usual, considering Sherlock had only felt the urge to eat him once so far.

 

Reluctantly, he uncurled himself from the corner of the tub with a small hiss of contempt, keeping up the act even though his shoulder slumped it defeat. The shit-eating grin that the Human had plastered on his face at his reaction was positively _hateful_ as Sherlock glared at his hands wrapped tightly about his knees. He hated himself in that moment for being such a sell-out. Hated his own weakness. Hated Humans more than anything on the face of the planet. Hated how his tongue licked his lower lip rebelliously in hunger more than anything.

 

However when the plate of bacon was placed on the floor beside the tub with a small _clink_ , he still reached for it. The greasy food distracted him from his inner repulsion as John carefully stepped forward, leaning forward to pull the plug. He wanted to drain the water and draw another bath, so that they would have a clean start. He watched as Sherlock's eyes widened and fixated on his hand, the creature's breath hitching and coming faster as the soldier's fingers almost brushed his feet. John felt a small pang of pity for the creature, but shook it off with the mechanical noise of water flushing down the drain. When Sherlock's eyes pulled themselves back towards his face, the soldier's features were composed. Friendly, but not overly so.

 

The perfect mask of smooth invitation without giving any kind of weakness away.

 

Only when the tub was completely empty of grime did John turn back on the cold water, the thundering of the water hitting porcelain making the Dragon jump and cringe violently in response. The soldier found himself awkwardly shuffling around one massive wing that was tinged nervous green, ducking from its flare as Sherlock instinctively tried to protect himself from the loud noise by flaring his wings outwards like a shield. The Dragon turned when John made a sound of distress, nearly getting clipped in the head by the scaly appendage. Sherlock was almost tempted to knock the man out, but when he caught a glimpse of John's face the thought died. The young man was grinning, staring at his leathery wing with a shadow of the awe that the creature had seen back in the Kennels. Sherlock found somewhat distressingly as he reached for another piece of bacon that if he wasn't careful, he just might get used to such an expression being gifted to him on a regular basis.

 

For a moment, both men were locked in their own private bubbles. Frozen inches away from each other as the soldier positioned himself just in the corner of Sherlock's peripheral vision and waited patiently for some kind of invitation. Polite, this Human was. Oddly so.

It was strangely soothing, the look John fixed him with. Like a heated match, hovering just far enough away to warm and not burn. The Dragon found himself torn between two instincts, fear and longing. How long had it been since he was touched in a way that was not meant to harm or subdue him? When had someone last offered to care for him, and expect nothing in return?

 

It was a dream.

Too good to be true, which meant it must be a lie.

 

And yet when John finally reached out with a hesitant hand to touch crest of Sherlock's curls, he shuddered. Because the rough pads of the soldier's hands made him want to simultaneously pull away with their lying tenderness and lean closer towards their touch. He trembled, pressing his face against his bent knees as he breathed slowly and allowed himself to shift to his fully Human form, letting the soldier past the final physical wall. John blinked in surprise as Sherlock's wings suddenly folded and _disappeared_ in front of him, leaving only the infection spreading across his skin. The patches of scales slowly faded away, and the long sinuous tail that had been curling protectively about the Dragon's figure vanished. He could now lean over the tub without any difficulty whatsoever, and he lightly stroked the place on Sherlock's scalp where one of his darkly curling horns had been peeking out but a moment before. All he felt was slightly ridged scalp, the same as his own.

 

Both of them were surprised when John whispered a hushed “Thank you.” under his breath. And though Sherlock's brain was screaming at him to tear, to bite into that solid hand upon his head, he forced himself to still. Because he realized somehow, that the soldier behind him could see what he was sacrificing to allow him this small form of contact, and what Sherlock both craved and loathed in his touch.

Somehow, John Watson had become a double-edged blade that the Dragon now had to balance on a sharp precipice. On one side, a strange trust that was beginning to work itself reluctantly into his chest like the rhythmic lathering of soap into his curls. On the other, a tumbling pit that would lead to both of their demises.

 

****

John had been right at the Kennels. Sherlock's hair when it was scrubbed free of dirt and debris, shone like dark obsidian under the bathroom lights. The locks were also quite long when they were no longer sticking together from blood and sickness, coming to rest messily at the nape of Sherlock's neck. They were almost touching his shoulders in thick waves. As John ran his fingers through them lightly in satisfaction, he found that they glided over his hands with the promise of being baby-soft when dry. They were a stark contrast to the milky colour of the creature's skin.

 

Now that Sherlock had given up hiding himself behind the massive protection of his wings, John was surprised to note that his Human form was actually quite tall and rather gangly. The thin side of slender. Though John wasn't exactly a giant himself, Sherlock's legs were _impossibly_ long, and they were a mass of disjointed angles as he crouched in the tub like a gargoyle. His toes twitched restlessly under the cold water, and those pale blue eyes moved with the pent-up energy of a man half-wild and uncertain. They crackled with the kind of intensity that could strip the bark from even the staunchest oak, and the scapulae of his back rolled slightly with tension under the soldier's steady gaze. John could now see with the absence of all the grime deep scars lacing all down the Dragon's arms and spine, crossing each other like lace ribbons spiralling down a canvas. The infection still bled sluggishly, but now that it had been cleaned it seemed a lot less severe that it had first appeared at a glance. That was relieving, as John dreaded to think what might have happened if it had been too serious. All Dragons in the military needed their wings, flying was an essential part of training. If Sherlock had been handicapped, then no amount of patience would have changed his fate. In fact compared to the brutally honest bruises and scars, it looked almost tame in terms of damage. He was surprised when an impossibly pale arm reached out to stop his hands as they hovered over the marks of abuse in a kind of morbid fascination, Sherlock's grip icy and wet and as solid as steel. Though the Dragon's eyes were downcast towards his knees, the message was clear.

 

_That was not part of the choice. Don't touch me._

 

Sherlock; half afraid that John would strike him for being so forward, tensed for battle with baited breath. Though his body was rigid and his presence commanding in an order, it was more of a desperate plea. In truth, the Dragon was vitally aware of how vulnerable he was at the moment, naked and broken and exposed. He felt fragile like this, with no claws or horns or armour to protect the soft skin beneath. It was like a babe being offered up to a lion, though he knew the Human wouldn't see it that way. There was nothing shielding him from those hands, whether they chose to hit or to heal. His teeth could only do so much damage before John would be able to call for help or possibly subdue him. Though he was stronger, the soldier had the vast advantage. With the collar, he'd be unable to deny the man anything if he decided to use force.

Servitude.

Sex.

A personal punching bag if it suited him.

Sherlock had witnessed and experienced all three.

 

A piece of leather, so simple and yet the chip inside it held a frightening amount of power. How long until John Watson shed his sheep-like disguise and became one of the monsters? How long until all of this insane dream came crashing down around his ears? This, this was so _dangerous._ His nerves screamed for him to act, and he didn't know how. Every possible outcome ended badly. And yet, he knew he had chosen this. Chosen to prolong the illusion that maybe, just maybe, he and this Human could coexist. He wanted to kick himself for not eating John the second he had been set free. At least then death would have been imminent, none of this slow torture of uncertainty. This Human was just so _gentle_ , but that could not be mistaken for _caring._

 

A feeling of panic began to well inside Sherlock's chest, and he felt as though he was already entertaining the idea of an early-set in Stockholm Syndrome. He had seen other Dragons with it before, who mistook a lack of beatings for kindness in their Masters. They'd follow their Humans around with mooning eyes and happy smiles, all the while ignoring the leashes connected to their throats. He scowled bitterly at the thought, nails biting crescents into his palms as he finally released John's arm and allowed the soldier to rinse the last dredges of soap from his hair.

 

John was done for no more than a second when the Dragon lunged out of the tub, shaking himself like a dog and sending water droplets all over the tile floor. It was a graceful and yet carnal move, and even though his ribs stuck out starkly John could see from the glimpse of his backside that Sherlock would soon regain his strength if all went well. The black mark on his back still worried him, but the Dragon was no longer stumbling in his movements as he crouched to pick up the now empty plate that had once held bacon and place it in the bathroom sink. The wrong place for it, but John wasn't about to argue as he was currently stuck marvelling at the level of improvement a cleaning did to the creature's overall appearance. Dripping wet curls hung over his blue-green eyes as they flicked about the bathroom once, contrasting starkly with high cheekbones that jutted sharply over cupid's- bow lips. Under the exposing light, the scars were obviously whip-marks, and they were coupled with shiny burns that looked both new and old. However they were soon hidden again as the wings reappeared, unfolding themselves to wrap around the thin man's shoulders protectively. Like a cape, they made Sherlock feel as if he wasn't so obviously vulnerable, so weak. His legs shook like a newborn gazelle's as he walked forward, but they held him as he stood ramrod straight. His horns sprouted from the crest of his head, and his scales glowed a defensive burnt orange like the end of a cigarette as the Dragon turned. He made as if to flee back down the stairs to _**221 C.**_

 

He was a picture of beauty and deadly force. John had never used the word _beautiful_ to describe a man before, but in his somewhat dazed state of mind that was the only adjective that could fit the image before him. In the silhouette of the bathroom light, those pale eyes were nearly clear, staring at a spot in the wall with a lost, wandering kind of gaze. There was a quiet loneliness, and a terrible fear hidden in the ice of that look. It was a brokenness that made the soldier think that Sherlock never intended for the likes of him to see.

 

Before the Dragon-man could leave, John's voice called softly after him. The Human's tone was clear and bright in the silence, yet it weighed heavily in Sherlock's chest. It was filled with a strange kind of wistfulness that he wasn't sure how to react to.

 

“I have scars too. It's.... I don't mind them.”

John stared at his hands as he said this, keeping his voice quiet and reflective. Like he was being introspective.

The knitted jumper he wore hid all of the scars that had been left behind by other hands, however he wasn't sure he was talking about the physical wounds. There was a haunted look in the creature's pale eyes, like he was struggling against visions and spectres that weren't actually there. John knew that feeling, the sensation of drowning in overwhelming past events. The paranoia it could instil could leave a man trembling, pressing his palm to his lips to keep from sobbing physically. He wasn't sure if Dragons felt pain in the same way that people did, but the soldier recognized suffering when he saw it. Fragility.

He knew it because it lingered under his own skin, under layer after layer of stoicism that came with having no other option but to stand and take the world as it came. It was survive or starve, and the Dragon knew it too.

He could tell by the way Sherlock glared at him as if offended by the gentle support.

 

The Dragon turned and regarded the young man speculatively for a long time with narrowed, cool eyes. John nearly jumped when he heard the rumbling murmur inside of his head, rolling like a storm coming off from the sea.

 

_**Afghanistan or Iraq?** _

 

“Um....Sorry, what?”

The soldier asked, mystified at the seemingly cryptic question. He was positive that this time the Dragon _did_ roll his eyes, and a stream of fog hissed out from between his clenched teeth in impatience. Though he was stark naked and dripping and _should_ have looked rather silly all things considered, he somehow managed to appear at once graceful and pretentious in a single well-placed _glare._

 

_**Where are they sending us? If we're going to be slaughtered, I'd like to know which desert I'm to bleed out in.** _

 

“Afghanistan..... but....”

 

He wanted to ask why Sherlock seemed to hold the opinion that they were going to die, and also question how he could seem so unconcerned about the whole affair. But the Dragon was already sashaying his way out the door, not a scrap of clothing protecting his modesty as he flounced out into the hall.

It was not trust. Not even close.

Neither John nor Sherlock deluded themselves into thinking so.

But it was something, and both of them shivered as they felt the others' presence like a fire just running underneath their skin. Not burning, but _warming._

 

Both of them privately hoped that somehow they would manage to get by unburned.


	7. Pet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BACK FROM HIATUS! YEAH WOHOO!
> 
> thanks for all the lovely comments and kudos while I was gone! I love London so far, and I'm so happy to get back to writing! :D
> 
> Big thanks to Iolre, my beta! They are my deity. :3
> 
> enjoy!

 

 

 

****Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.** **

 

 **Hoarding Instinct (Condition):** _Though it has been established by now that Dragons do not "hoard" treasure in the classic way from many popular fairy-tales, there are certain situations in which a Dragon might be tempted to go into what is called a "Hoarding Instinct"  (See more details in how to prevent this on page 684). One example would be if a Dragon is in "Mating Season" (See page 333 section C for details) or when said Dragon is under an extreme amount of stress. The "Hoarding Instinct" is an extreme defensive mechanism, derived from childhood nesting urges. Dragons when they feel deeply threatened will be likely to make small nests about their territory, but in extreme situations will often devolve into a "Hoarding" state of mind. The Dragon will use any objects they may have a preference towards, not just treasures humans would generally deem "valuable". The best thing to do while a Dragon is in "Hoard" mode is to just wait it out until the Dragon feels secure enough to leave the nest by themselves or invite the person in (See page 284 for more details). Under any circumstances, DO NOT  try to force a Dragon out of "Hoarding Mode". It is both dangerous for the Dragon, and for yourself. And angry Dragon is a lethal one._

 

 

 

Sherlock dreamed of fire. Fire that was so bright, it burned brilliant scarlet and turned the sky a deep magenta pink. It was beautiful, terrible and all-consuming as it ate the mountain before his very eyes. He could feel his breath stolen away by the heat of it, his childlike body threatening to topple over under the force of its molten rage. He crouched in the fast-melting snow, dark curls becoming ashen by the drifting pieces that rained down like little flakes of dead skin. When he inhaled, he could taste their flavour. Gritty and bitter.

 

He coughed, then cried out again. What he said was something in his own tongue, but it was blurred and twisted to the fading of time. He screamed it again and again, until he was sure his throat was raw. Then he shifted into his true form, screaming into the frigid night air that turned to dawn with the blazing fire.

 

He couldn't move.

 

He didn't know why, but perhaps that was the nature of the nightmare. Trapping its owner in the fells of their own subconscious mind, feeding on their fears and darkest torments. And wasn't that what fire was to a creature who was made of ice? The ultimate mind-numbing terror.  It was enough to make a grown Dragon become crippled in fear.

 

The flames were getting closer, and he wanted to shrink away from them. They burned, blistered his skin even though they didn't even touch. It was so hot that Sherlock thought if he dared to open his eyes he'd go blind. He was so afraid, so small, and he could not claw his way back to reality. The disorientation of panic kicked in, and in desperation he screeched one last time a name to the sky. Calling for someone, someone that Sherlock could not recall, and could not hope to know for they were buried deep in the depths of his mind.

 

A flash of shining, silver scales.

 

A mighty roar.

 

 

 

Then Sherlock woke, jerking awake with a snarl already on his lips before he took in the rapidly-becoming recognizable peeling wallpaper of 221 C. Slowly, he took in the fact that he had slept for nearly a full day and a half, the morning sun probably just beginning to rise if his internal clock was correct. Much too long; he could usually manage to go without sleep for nearly a week before he collapsed. The bath had made him stupidly complacent. Unsure of how long John expected him to rest for, he came to wonder as always if he would finally be beaten for one of his transgressions. Nervously, he licked his lips and listened half-fearfully for the crack of a whip or an angry voice. Instead, he was surprised to hear a sound that was at once recognizable and yet alien to him, drifting softly down from the floor above him with a gentle caress. It had probably been the thing that had woken him up in the first place.

 

Music.

 

There was music playing from 221 B, elegantly twirling down the steps to reach Sherlock's awestruck ears.

 

He could scarcely believe it, the sound so achingly fragile when compared to the noises he was used to. It felt like an illusion, something that would soon be shattered by a hoarse scream or the snapping of bones, by the sound of brothers and sisters taking their final breaths and by the rattling of cages trembling in the dark. Except he wasn't in the Kennels anymore.

 

No, he was in someplace much stranger.

 

And in some ways, more dangerous.

 

His sharply pointed teeth shone for a moment before he allowed himself to shrink into his half-Human form, straightening tentatively as his shoulder wound throbbed once as if to remind him of its existence.

 

There were no ice cubes at the threshold this time, but instead the Dragon found himself being lead creepingly up the stairs inch by inch by the strangely hypnotic melody drifting down to him, just loudly enough for his sensitive hearing to pick out the notes. It was a pure instrument, whatever was playing in the piece, and he found himself burbling softly to the general tone of the music even though he didn't know its name. The notes were sad and soft, melting into complexity as time wore on and the piece rose in power and strength. As he took the steps one at a time, Sherlock found himself swaying slightly to the rhythm in interest. It was a beautiful noise, whatever instruments they were that were making them. He didn't know, but he thought it might be something with strings. He had once had a Master that could play guitar. She hadn't been half bad, a country singer with a rich sort of rasping voice that had sounded always just slightly off-key but consistently so. Though Sherlock's opinion of musical instruments, and music in general for that matter, greatly diminished when she had used said guitar once to strike him across the face in a drunken rage after he refused to be her packhorse and carry her music supplies. He hadn't been ashamed in the slightest when he had eaten the absurdly tough-tasting instrument the next day, splitting it in half over is knee before tearing into it, strings and all. Listening to her screams of horror had been worth the stomach-ache afterwards.

 

The door to 221 B was, as it had been the day before, opened wide for him. A warm glow emanated from the room temptingly, though the Dragon remained in shadow a moment longer to scout for signs of a trap. There were none, except the obvious of course being the fact that he could literally be attacked at any moment by the Human.

 

John's voice spoke from the living room, startling him from his thoughts.

 

“You know, you don't have to ask permission to come in. I know it's your custom and all, but really, this place is meant for you too.”

 

Sherlock snorted indignantly, blowing fog out in a cloud around him before silently gathering his courage to flounce inside as menacingly as he could manage. Given the fact that he was as unsure of himself as a baby cow being thrown into a pack of wolves, he felt he did a fairly impressive job.

 

The Human smiled at him in an infuriatingly not-scared-for-his-life kind of way, closing a large tome that the Dragon had seen him reading the other day and bookmarking his place with his thumb.

 

John blinked as Sherlock came waltzing in, a little surprised and pleased at the Dragon's confidence even though it was twisted by his glowering snarl. In the light of early morning, the creature's lithe figure appeared just a little bit healthier than it had before. His cheeks had just a little bit more colour in them, and instead of looking feverish and dazed those blue-green eyes were sharp and cutting as they flicked about the room. The young soldier could tell by the Dragon's stance that Sherlock was on guard, but not actively prepared to attack. Cautious curiosity, lingering like a simmering blaze just under a smooth pane of ice. His head was tilted slightly as he listened in rapt attention to the music playing in the flat, the CD player Harry had given John for his sixteenth birthday finally coming in handy. The creature's scales were a swirling, undecided colour, caught between transition from one emotion to another.  He froze immediately every time John shifted in his chair even the slightest. John tried not to flinch when that thundering voice rumbled in his head. A simple, questioning sentence.

 

_**....Music?** _

 

“Beethoven. Moonlight Sonata. Only have the violin version, not the original.....sorry...” John answered promptly, shoulders straightening with being directly addressed for the first time since he had brought Sherlock to his flat. He found himself answering the question with its unspoken requests, unsure of how much information the Dragon really wanted. His military training urged him to give everything in pointed, clipped form. To get the facts out straight before the embellishments.

 

“I got it from a.... friend.” He was hesitant to admit that Harry had given it to him once as a prank birthday gift, when he has asked her for a 'killer CD' for his seventeenth. “Not really my taste but I thought it might..... bring a little bit of cheer to the flat.”

 

At around seven in the morning. Smooth lie John, really. Good job.

 

He winced at his inability with words, struggling to keep a conversation afloat with those pale blue eyes assessing him with startling clarity. In truth, he had picked the CD in the hopes that it would appeal to the Dragon's calmer side, keeping him from becoming quite so anxious every time he stepped into the flat. John had reflected on it for most of the evening yesterday, worrying that it might instead antagonize the creature and make him more volatile than ever. After all, how was he to know if the Dragon would enjoy his taste in music? It's not like he could just casually ask _'Hey, how do you feel about Bob Marley? I'm feeling like some reggae at the moment personally'_. At first he had considered some of his favourite rock albums (ACDC, The Who, he even had a couple of songs from My Chemical Romance) but then decided against it as he felt the creature would probably find the ripping guitar solos grating and somewhat offensive. Then, he had considered just turning on the radio to one of the trashier pop stations, but quickly discarded the idea with distaste. Mostly because if John felt like he needed to punch someone after he spent an hour being forced to listen to crappily autotuned show divas (Harry had a thing for blasting her radio at all hours of the night when she had still been living at home) then he imagined that Sherlock would very well eat him out of spite.

 

In the end, classical had been more of a default option to fall back on, but it seemed he struck lucky. John could see even though the Dragon was by no means relaxed about him, that some of the all-consuming tension that had wired his every move the night before had gone slack. Half-crouched on the floor, Sherlock's tail swished lightly to the tune, his mind imagining deft fingers plucking away at instruments he had only ever dreamed before of hearing.

 

The Dragon's gaze swept over John with minute speculation, noting that the Human before him showed tell-tale signs of sleep deprivation and stress. His pupils were dilated from drinking too many caffeinated cups of tea, and dark circles hung under his eyes. The blue-striped jumper he wore wasn't quite as tacky as the beige one he had worn the other day, but it made him seem younger somehow. Sherlock found he was looking at not so much a soldier, but something between a man and a boy. His blonde hair was slightly ruffled, making look not unlike duck feathers sticking out in every direction in golden tufts. Though short, it was just long enough that the Dragon had the inexplicable urge to run his hands through it, if only to test to see if hair could really be as soft as it looked. Quickly though he did away with that thought, mentally kicking himself even as his nostrils flared to take in the smells of the flat around him. 

 

 

He took in the familiar scent of tea and earthiness, a trademark of John that Sherlock found himself rapidly starting to associate with 'safety' (Much to his annoyance). It was the strongest flavour that rolled off of his tongue, but now that he had a better chance to analyze, he could tell right away it wasn't the only one. Under the predominant scent of the Human, other smells lingered like accompanying flowers to a bouquet, surrounding the centre that was John. Strings of sandalwood cleaner and violet perfume (girlfriend? No, not the scent of a young woman) mingled and wound around the sharp scent of gun oil and boot polish, probably from up the stairs where John's bedroom door stood open. With it there was the muted smell of bacon from the other day, followed by a newer scent that was equally delicious but that Sherlock didn't recognize.

 

He inhaled more deeply, brow furrowing in concentration as he tried to pinpoint the aroma that drifted past his nostrils. Not meat, it lacked that certain greasy and savoury texture. Yet it wasn't something bland either, like the watery gruel he had been given at the Kennels when they hadn't been able to afford the more expensive shipments. It was sweet, almost sickeningly so, and had a dark timbre with it that spoke of decadence. His mouth watered as he unwillingly imagined what it could be, the possibilities making him painfully hungry once again in an instant even though as of late he had eaten more than he had ever before. A small, desperate whine of frustration at his own weakness slipped from his lips before he could stop it.

 

John mistook it for longing, but then again, that's exactly what it was. Even if Sherlock was loathe to admit it.

 

“Mrs. Hudson dropped by last night after you had gone. Apparently, she had been making a German chocolate cake for her friends at the bingo hall and just happened to make a small extra layer by accident.” John winked, chuckling to himself at the joke he made even as Sherlock mentally took into account the presence of an elderly Human who liked to bake (Explained the other scent, perfume most likely worn because she is visiting a 'gentleman friend' at the bingo hall). However, his thoughts came up short when he realized that he had no idea what a German chocolate cake actually was or what it tasted like.

 

Vaguely, he felt almost certain it was something edible (because anything that smelled like that had to be edible surely) but beyond that he was quite at a loss as to imagine what it could look like. Seeming to sense his confusion if not the cause of it, John stood slowly, shuffling over to the kitchen area to rifle around with something that made a large clattering noise (Sherlock would later find out it as a clear glass cloche that covered the dessert) before coming back out with what looked to be a pastry made from heaven itself balanced in one hand. Sherlock's eyes went from slits to saucers as wide as dinner plates in shock.

 

The “little” layer of cake was topped with what smelled like rich vanilla icing, swirling in wave-like patterns to meet bright red strawberries glistening on top. It was the biggest dessert Sherlock had ever laid eyes on let alone eaten, and its smell was positively scrumptuous from five feet away where he was standing. He must have not looked quite as distant as he had wanted to, because John grinned like he had just won some kind of prize as he knelt and placed the dish upon the floor, pushing it across the tile until it rested at Sherlock's feet. All of a sudden, the Dragon realized just how strange this entire situation was. Someone treating him like he was something to be cared for, someone to ask about. Someone worth feeding, despite the fact he hadn't earned his keep in the slightest. It was like everything in his universe that had made sense had been turned on its ear, like a glass kettle smashed to pieces against a brick wall. And he couldn't reconcile it in his head, not without feeling his skin itch and his eyes burn strangely as he looked at the cake before him, given to him without a second thought.

 

How many other Dragons lived day-to-day, never having enough to eat? He had been one of them until only a few nights ago, and he knew. Knew what starvation felt like, the sensation of your own stomach trying to eat away at your organs, desperate for satiation. How it could wake you from even the deepest slumber, make you cry out and squirm as you tried to find something to alleviate the pain of your gut twisting itself into knots. Yet here this Human was, feeding him deliciously extravagant things like sweets and bacon, and he wasn't even thinking slightly about anyone else. Sherlock's eyes closed. He wasn't used to guilt, shame and humiliation yes, but guilt caught him off guard and made him want to sway where he stood. _What made him different from those others, trapped still in their Kennels?_ He should have been the least likely to end up here, warm and safe and being looked upon with something akin to kindness. He didn't deserve it. Didn't even want it. What made him different from the other wretches, chained to their cages by collars and unable to break free, shocking devices driving them to their places in their cells?

 

_You've been picked as a pet, that's the only difference._

 

His mind mercilessly supplied.

 

_There's a trade after all, and you've just found it. You've traded what little freedom you had to be coddled, and you didn't even realize you did it until it was too late._

 

It settled on him like a weight, and when his eyes snapped open, he was propelled into a hyper-awareness that came only from coming completely undone, unable to deal with such a sudden shift in position. He was no longer a prisoner, he was an owned pet.

 

He was fed because he was owned by someone.

 

He was someone's Servant.

 

He was little more than an animal after all.

 

That was when his mind went blank. Defenseless against the overwhelming feeling of panic.

 

The compulsion was sudden and gut wrenching, leaving Sherlock almost light-headed. In an instant, everything vanished from his mind but one single thought:

 

_Protect._

 

The Dragon immediately lunged upon the dessert viciously, swiping the plate so that the cake was jealously guarded by the great expanse of his wings and tail, tucked against his chest.

 

John blinked as Sherlock coiled over the cake like he was guarding a precious treasure, scales flashing a protective gold like the colour of sun-blasted sand. The rumbling edges of a low growl of approval bubbled from the creature's chest, sounding like the revving of a pickup truck with the close proximity between them. The soldier had to clamp down on the familiar beginnings of fear prickling along his spine, telling himself firmly that Sherlock was not actively being a threat. He was just defending what he perceived as his, nothing more. There was nothing to be scared of so long as he didn't try and take his cake from him. Like a crooked spinning tea cup, he struggled to keep his thoughts from whirling out into the realm of dead panic when Sherlock's lips peeled back to bare inhumanely pointed teeth.

 

The Dragon wasn't entirely sure what brought on his bout of protective instincts, perhaps the cross between suddenly having anything he desired to eat and his suspicions that somehow, all of this would end horribly. That somehow, he'd wake up to find this all to be a vivid hallucination or dream. Either way, he knew he was truly pushing his luck, daring to actually growl at a Human inside his own territory. A small, scientific part of his brain wondered vaguely if this would be it. If John would finally break his calm facade of caretaker and finally don the mantle of a Master. Surely now would be the moment, when for all intents and purposes the Dragon gave off the aura of a beast ready to strike? As it was, even he wasn't sure if he was going to attack or retreat. Possibly because he didn't know what had set him off in the first place. Like an abrupt wave of change, he found his heart pounding anxiously inside the cage of his sternum, and his eyes narrowed into defensive slits. He could feel his Dragon form aching to shift, to lose the vulnerable soft skin of Human flesh and to become invincible and hard as steel. It was drowning him, the sense of panic, and Sherlock thought it might drag him down so that his intelligence would sleep and the primal side of him would lunge into control. He reined it in sharply, blinking away the red tinge that everything had taken on to find John's voice right by his ear. The Human was muttering things, meaningless words that had no purpose whatsoever, yet Sherlock latched onto the steady drone to ground himself, the music of the soldier's masculine voice as soft and calming as sunlight cutting through smoke. As if he was kicking desperately against the current of a powerful waterfall, the Dragon forced himself out of his instinctive pull, making his mind resurface into logic so he could float above the waves that screamed MINE! Without sanity or reason.

 

John watched as Sherlock's blazing blue eyes stared at him with a manic, feral gleam. The creature's wings flashed panicked red like a traffic light, coalescing into an anxious seasick-green as the Dragon recoiled away from John's touch like he had lice. This in itself was not a new occurrence, but the resounding snarl that left Sherlock's lips as he glared hatefully up at the soldier made John pause, regarding the Dragon before him cautiously. The sound, ragged and laced with true panic, was different from the blustering roars Sherlock had used in interactions before. This one was somehow tinged with a raw emotion that struck the soldier and made him freeze in his movements. Gone was the somewhat childlike man that John had caught a glimpse of the other day, and back were the pointed teeth and slitted blue eyes. Sherlock's tail was whip-like as it lashed possessively, his figure curled around the simple piece of cake like it was some kind of treasure. With his wings raised defensively and his ebony horns glinting under the kitchen light, the Dragon looked suddenly like the classic depiction of the monsters of John's childhood. Creatures that ruled mountains and shadowy caves, spitting fire and ice on villages to protect what was theirs. The longer he stared, the more he felt a prickling sensation crawl along his neck. The sense of recognition of a term he had read about somewhere at some point.....

 

Treasure.... Oh. _**Oh!**_

 

Eyes wide, John took a second look at the Dragon, pieces clicking together like the mechanics of a clock meshing into one machine to allow the slow ticking of realization. Slowly, he backed away from Sherlock, keeping his hands up in an air of surrender even as he muttered under his breath soothing words.

 

“There, there. It's okay. You're safe, I promise. _Shh_. That's enough growling now _shhh_....”

 

Making sure he was still facing the creature, the soldier walked backwards until he entered the kitchen, searching for the jade-green tome sitting peacefully on the marble counter. Scooping it into his hands, he was just about to leaf through it quickly to the chapter that was nagging at him when a sharp sound pierced the air. The cry of a telephone ringing throughout the flat was answered by a shrieking roar from Sherlock, and John dove for the phone in the corner of the kitchen before the Dragon could work himself into more of a frenzy than he already had. Ears still ringing from the echoing vibrations of the creature's howl, the soldier winced as he cradled the receiver by his ear.

 

“Hello?”

 

Mike's distressed voice crackled from the other end of the line, muffled by a background clatter that sounded like every single expensively breakable thing the man owned (Which admittedly probably wasn't much) was being smashed into pieces.

 

“John! You have to help me!” His friend moaned, sounding panicked and utterly knackered even from the separation of a telephone line. “I did everything I was told to do, I mean it was written all down in the pamphlet but-”

 

John flinched when something shattered right next to his ear, sending tinkling, bell-like vibrations over Mike's voice. His friend was practically sobbing on the other line.

 

“You've got to help me! Please mate! I don't have the heart to use the collar and-”

 

More smashing, followed by the crackling of smoke threatening to turn to flame. Apparently, Mike's Molly had been pushed to her limit. His friend shouted into the phone, sounding thoroughly lost and not knowing where to go. His tone was defeated, crushed and hopeless like a coffee cup trodden on underfoot.

 

“Please John. I don't know what to do. At this rate, I'm about ready to do something I really don't want to do. She's going to eat me, or worse if I don't figure out what set her off! ”

 

For a moment, John debated with himself. On the one hand, he knew exactly what his friend was implying. He'd take his Dragon back to the Kennels, or finally gather up the courage to use force in discipline. Neither of them were vouchers for violence, Mike being too gentle and John having had experience on the receiving end of that kind of treatment. The soldier knew that if his friend went there, a part of Stamford might possibly break, not to mention what mental state his poor Dragon would be put in because of it. Yet on the other hand, John couldn't put off the feeling that Sherlock needed him right now. His own Dragon was clearly upset and he didn't know how, or why it had happened. Leaving him now didn't seem like a good idea, especially because chances were he wouldn't be able to coerce Sherlock back to 221 C.

 

Anything could happen, the least of which being his Dragon could very well decide just to lay waste to his flat. He could accidentally hurt himself on something sharp, hurt someone else (it was still up to debate if it would be on purpose or by accident) if they decided to walk in, or he could even wind up causing such a racket that another tenant could complain. Teetering between feeding his friend to the wolves and possibly feeding Sherlock to them, John wavered. Looking at the book lying heavy before him, the soldier felt as if the green leather cover sat accusing him. Its golden-coloured pages promised solutions not just for him, but for so many others. He was quickly realizing that up until now, he hadn't thought outside the realm of his own problems, facing the terrifying challenge of raising a Red-Card Dragon from savagery into some semblance of civilized intelligence.

 

He guiltily admitted to himself that he hadn't bothered to think of his friend at all in the past couple of days, too wrapped up with Sherlock. In fact, he hadn't left the house once since the Dragon had arrived, and he was truthfully beginning to go just slightly stir-crazy. He had caught himself tapping his fingers nervously against the counter, a habit that only came forth when he had energy that was not being spent and not enough to do. Also, he was starting to run dangerously low on groceries. The bread was gone, and he had used the last of the milk this morning in his breakfast cereal and tea. Soon, he'd be forced to drink the horrid fruit tea Mrs. Hudson had given him as a welcoming present (not that the sweet old woman didn't have the best interests at heart) and John knew he would sooner eat his favourite jumper.

 

Horrid stuff, fruit tea.

 

Like hot squash and sour wine mixed together. He shuddered in distaste.

 

Looking down at the book, he sighed in defeat and rubbed his hands over his face in exhaustion. His thoughts bit at him like vipers.

 

_You were given this wonderful gift, knowledge no one has seen before on creatures that people have feared for decades even while ruling over them. Are you really going to hoard it all, just like those Dragons in your fairy-tales that you read as a kid?_

 

He knew he was beat. Slumping in resignation, John blew an explosive breath out from his clenched teeth and cradled the phone, voice laced with the flat certainty that none of this was going to end well.

 

“Can you give me a half hour? I'll be at your flat as soon as I can.”

 

Mike's only answer was a sob of unabashed relief.

 

****

Far away, a man dreamed of a past he'd rather forget.

 

It was a yellow sound, bright and open. He did not normally connect colour to music, but this twisting melody wove itself visually in front of him, the tone washed over him like a sea. He floated in it, losing himself to the memory of its tone, swimming in the waves that only just threatened to capsize him if he dared to lose focus. Golden, soft like spun wheat and rippling like the taste of a summer sunset.

 

That was how he knew he was dreaming.

 

In real life, things were shades of monochrome black and white. Sometimes, pale blue.

 

Though never silver.

 

Silver had disappeared so very long ago.

 

He dreamed of dark curls atop a small head, and the blisteringly harsh beauty of mountains standing starkly. They threatened to pierce the sky like knives, far higher than the trees and the cities of Man that dwelt far below. From where he stood on the ledge of the outcropping rocks, he could see the smoke from their chimneys, drifting lazily into the air like mist. That darkly-curled head of hair bobbed softly as the small Hatchling stumbled about on unsteady limbs, used to four legs instead of two. Soft babbling in Dragon-Tongue muttered under the child's breath, he watched as the Hatchling gurgled happily to himself. He watched as the small creature wandered over to the edge of the precipice, green-blue eyes sharp and piercing as he scooped up a shining stone from a larger pile of rocks. Cradling it in his fingers, the Hatchling babbled possessively over the stone, examining its shine in the early morning sunlight. Its crystal facets shone over his cheekbones, dazzling shades of purple and indigo and sparkling white. Vivid. The man smiled down at the Hatchling, feeling a swell of affection pass through his chest at the innocent and curious face his little one presented him. He felt a warm pride in the tiny Dragons' searching skills, the collection of treasure a normal and wonderfully instinctive part of growing up for all of his kind.

 

He was surprised, he remembered that.

 

Surprised when the Hatchling slowly turned to him, a wide smile on his face as he held the stone out to him to take. Sherlock Holmes laughed, a childish, high-pitched note of joy as he spoke in Dragon-Tongue at him.

 

“Look; brother, for you!”

 

And the man woke to the dying echoes of a voice lost to him, and he sat up in the leather chair of his home sharply with a retort already on his lips before he realized it was all an illusion. The dream left him with a feeling of happiness ~~,~~ that slowly drained when he once again saw the flickering embers lying in his fireplace. Staring at the cold, lonely walls of his home, he leaned back into the seat and sighed, passing a hand over his face before reaching to turn the gold ring that rested on his finger. Pale blue eyes stared off into the distance, seeing at a scene that was no longer reality, melting away into the vagueness of memory. He sighed under his breath, wishing he could clutch at the flickering shreds of the dream, the yellow fading to ashen grey with the light of morning peeking through the curtains.

 

He had fallen asleep in his chair again. Something that had become a habit he couldn't break. He always seemed to dream when he fell asleep sitting up, though he wasn't sure why.

 

Perhaps in a way, that was why he couldn't stop himself from lying there, night after night.

 

There were times when he wondered if he'd like to fall asleep and never wake again, if only to continue seeing that cherubic face smiling back at him.

 

If only to once again catch a glimpse of silver, shining at the corner of his eye.

 

But these were not good thoughts, and if he dwelt on them for too long, he'd surely lose his mind. It would crumble and break, turn to dust like statues left to ruin. He'd go mad, spiralling into the blackness of despair.

 

Not that in some ways, he hadn't already.

 

No.

 

There was one point of light, no matter how small. One glimmer of hope, shining in the darkness. Like a candle, shuddering and frail. Tiny, but with the promise of a flame. A bonfire, pressed nearly into oblivion. When kindled back to life, could regroup and grow into a blazing inferno.

 

Mycroft Holmes wondered if John knew, just how much such a small light could lend hope when he stared at the face of the cold world he had immersed himself in for someone else's sake.


	8. Coming Apart At The Seams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... this chapter's a little bit shorter.... but I feel like it's important.... :/
> 
> I am currently giving my wonderful beta Iolre a bit of a break (because I kind of overwhelmed them with work when I came back from hiatus and now I feel bad) so if you see anything amiss, don't hesitate to point it out ^_^  
> I am only human after all! Comments/kudos of course are always welcomed with love and cuddles, and I hope you enjoy! :D
> 
> Next chapter will have adventures with Molly! as well as Mrs. Hudson possibly getting through to Sherlock....
> 
> *oh! I almost forgot! slight warning for potentially triggering things in this chapter. wotch yer step ^.^''

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**The Political Situation For Dragonologists (Europe):** _With the unfortunate beginning of the Dragon War, most of Europe has unfortunately taken a rather grim stance against the Dragon species and sympathizers to say the least. In fact, most of North America in general bears ill-will towards the subject of Dragonology, many historians speculating on the fact that the Dragon War began because of the political instability of Europe at the time. Slavery is a legal trade in Europe, and a Dragonologist may find themselves uncomfortable when dealing with this fact. However, it is important to remember that if you are a visitor, creating political unrest in an already war-torn country will likely only bring more suffering to the population. Though the Eastern countries are locked in physical battle, Europe is currently engaged in an unseen war of their own. Bigotry, racial tension and segregation is something most Dragons must face every day within most of North America, and a Dragonologist must be aware of this when studying their subjects. Though it is impossible for one person to change the world, it is possible for many. I firmly believe to this day that small kindnesses and little acts of patience are the key to changing my home country's actions. Though change will not happen overnight, one can only hope that one day, an understanding between Dragon and man alike will be on the horizon._

 

 

Going into the centre of District Three was often seen as hazardous, but a necessary drawback to the usually metropolitan-like atmosphere it held further out in the country. However, Mike lived closer to the centre than John did, and so the young man calmly reminded himself that he was a _soldier_ and that soon he would be facing terrain that made the heart of the city appear _tame_ by comparison.  After all, Mrs. Hudson went into town almost every other day, and though she kept a bottle of pepper spray on her at all times just in case, she had never been mugged or attacked. The little old woman had even claimed to have made some friends just over at the little flower shop by their neighbourhood. Surely he could handle himself, if only to get a few groceries and visit his friend before he handled the pressing issue of Sherlock's complete meltdown. There would be time, and he figured that if the Dragon managed to destroy anything too badly, then the fire department would be called to take care of things. He figured if worst came to absolute worst, he'd call for a cab to take back home if he didn't think he could handle it.

 

If only he had _known._

 

Back home, John had witnessed very little of London's politics. Growing up in the equivalent of the countryside, the government's hand extended only to encourage the citizens of his slum district to sign up for the war effort. They did everything the could, offering food they wouldn't actually give, and a pension that could barely feed a child let alone a grown man. His school supplies had all been branded with the Queen's emblem (A silver stag and two blades crossed) and John couldn't recall a single piece of sports equipment that hadn't been painted the iconic red and blue. He had learned marching tunes before his own phone number, and when he was small his dreams had been filled with nothing else but the thundering of a thousand feet stepping in time. When he had been older, that's when he had seen the price a man had to pay in order to proudly belt out the beginning of _God Save The Queen._

 

Still, many people had flocked to the army, John included, as he had been convinced to do so by a fair bit of war propaganda in his time. However what he came to see as he leapt deftly off of the tube was something else entirely. He was assaulted at all sides by the hordes of people, shuffling their way to the surface like ants hearing thunder overhead as they wove in and out of each other to reach their destinations. He stood like a child gripping a tree in the middle of a hurricane, momentarily dazed by the sheer amount of noise and physical _touch_ he was abruptly forced to endure. The tunnel emerged into the heart of London, and with it came like a smack across the face the strangest sensation of becoming crawlingly claustrophobic in the middle of a central city.

 

Concrete buildings arched high over John's head, threatening to pierce the slate-grey sky that threatened the promise of a good rainfall in a few hours. The air was crisp but not freezing, and he flipped the collar of his coat closer against his neck as he wound his way through the oppressive packs of everyday society in an attempt to find a safe corner to catch his breath for just a moment. As he did so, he became aware of the different lines of chatter that flew over his head, hundreds of people having thousands of different discussions at once.

“ _Of **course** I'm working, what are you even implying-”_

“ _I thought I deserved that promotion, not Blakely. I mean, I did all the work-”_

“ _Mom! Can we **please** go to the comic book store?! Pleeeeaaaassssee-”_

“ _Not today!”_

 

 

And above all of it, a tumultuous roar that sounded at first like the pounding of drums, but upon closer inspection was the rumbling of hundreds of people chanting. Protesters flocked the roads and the side-walks, brandishing signs and shouting their discontent like the chorus of tepid bells into the air. The crowds of people were an ugly mob of red and white, their hands holding up signs of a crimson Dragon curled into a ring-like shape. Underneath the symbol were bold-lettered words, some traced on with sharpie, others typed.

 

_WE WANT EQUALITY._

 

_DRACS ARE PEOPLE TOO._

 

_MAKE LOVE. NOT WAR._

 

_DEATH TO OPPRESSION._

 

Like the foam to a bloody ocean meeting a wave, they clashed in ugly contrast with their polar opposites, the blue-shirted conservative party brandishing their own signs like swords across the street. Their letters were bright gold, and held emboldened sentences that glinted like a Dragon's treasure as it gleamed in the sun.

 

_PROTECT TRADITIONAL VALUES_

 

_DO YOU WANT DRAGONS TO TAKE OVER?_

 

_SOCIETY WILL CRUMBLE_

 

_HUMANS GOOD, DRACS BAD._

 

Truthfully, it felt like a bad rendition of _“Animal Farm”_.

 

They all stood in front of Buckingham Palace. A symbolic defiance and support of the Dragon War. They crowded the edge of the lawn like they were all facing the edge of a cliff, everyone crowding to get to the front and yet unwilling to slip off the edge. Around them were signs that the riot had been going on for a couple of hours. Overturned cars burned bright with flame, lying on their sides like neglected toys scattered in the road. Broken windows left powdered glass that crunched under John's feet as he walked past them, spray paint dripping off the walls with symbols and messages that were only partially legible. The smell of animosity hung heavy in the air, like a living coil tightening around everyone's throats. The hoards of people fought viciously against the law enforcement trying to hold them back, throwing stones and whatever else they could get their hands on in order to try and get past the impassive wall that was the law.

They also happened to be blocking the street that John needed to go down to get to Mike's flat. The cobblestone way that lead down the narrow path to the living quarters of the military was effectively cut off by the dangerous-looking hordes of people screaming their dissent at the government. Considering some were brandishing Molotov cocktails and Swiss army knives obviously under their coats, the soldier was reluctant to try and push his way through. With his luck, he'd brush arms with the one lunatic hiding a gun.

 

He could see already law enforcement doing their best to suppress the crowd, a glimpse of silver hair and tired eyes and of curly hair and a caustic tone all he could see before his view was blocked annoyingly by someone taller than him. He huffed, shoving his hands into his pockets and resisting the urge not to look like a put-out five year old as he tried to weave past to find an exit from the press of people. Never before had John despised to such a degree being only five foot six, scowling to himself as he tried to appear as unrelated to the crowd as possible as the sergeants looked for anyone with a possible streak for destruction. It must have been a tough job, as frankly most of the people John ducked around looked prepared to froth at the mouth. Like gathered puppets they leered at the flash of bright badges and shouted as some of their own were subdued with handcuffs. John couldn't help but notice the conservative side had less of their people pinned against cars. All of the sergeants held guns in their hands -a relatively new choice as the riots had become more common place across Europe- and they held them like professionals that had never actually seen battle, left only to practice on still targets.

 

John managed to slip by and push through the crowds with only one person stopping him. The person, a girl in her late teens with an acid-green streak in her hair and a metallic lip piercing, handed him a brightly-hued flyer with a surprisingly gentle smile. In bold black print was an intense accusation, sitting on top of an image that John knew too well.

A metal collar.

 

CAN YOU TRUST YOUR GOVERNMENT?

 

  * _Secret cameras!_

  * _Officials being exempt from the law!_

  * _Dragons euthanized for no reason?!_

  * _How **free** are you?_

  * _QUESTION THE RULES._




 

The soldier tried not too look to guilty as his hands went subconsciously towards the inside of his jacket where the _Book of Dragonology_ rested. Stiff-faced, he thanked the girl and carried on, suddenly glad that his unimposing height allowed him to melt into the crowd.

He was nearly on the other side of the alley, his figure passing into the shadow of an overhanging sign, when the sound of a gunshot rang out. Turning, John saw a flash of green hair was the girl that had handed him the flyer fell to the ground, clutching her middle in a silent cry of pain. The crowd surged, shouting accusations at the shaking sergeant that held their still-smoking gun. His wide brown eyes were filled with shocked tears as he stared at the muzzle of his own weapon in horror. He looked no older than eighteen. Then he was blocked out as hundreds of bodies rushed at him all at once.

 

John had no choice but to walk away as the cries of violence escalated into a crescendo like the splitting of a landslide tumbling down a hill. He gritted his teeth until they ached, hands trembling at his sides until the paper crumpled in his palm. The pounding of his own heart filled his skull until his neck felt heavy with its weight. The only thing that kept him from turning back was the image in his mind of Sherlock, alone and vulnerable back home. Was the Dragon waiting for him? Was he in pain? Was his wing troubling him more than usual, and that was the reason he had lost it?

The thought of leaving Sherlock alone when he didn't know what was wrong, of getting arrested or worse left John Watson silent to the violence behind him, and seemingly uncaring as he marched resolutely away.

 

It was only when he knocked on Mike Stamford's door that John realised with a distant kind of horror that he had neglected to tell Mrs. Hudson he was going out.

 

****

Sherlock didn't know what was wrong. By all accounts, the logical part of his brain told him that nothing was amiss. Still the silence of the flat irked him, and his hands trembled with need as his gaze flicked uneasily about the three corners of the living room. Everything chafed like an ill-fitting suit of armour, and his shoulders twitched with nerves. He sat curled in the fourth corner, tail wrapped about himself tightly as he exhaled sharp gusts of fog through his nose, trying to steady his racing heart. It thundered through his veins anyway, and the Dragon could imagine the way his blood vessels were undoubtedly widening, stretching to allow maximum blood-flow through his system. He felt heady from it, his brain swimming with the increase of oxygen.

 

He had been locked in this defensive position -his view of the door and all window unobstructed- since John had received a telephone call that had called him away. At least, he thought that's what happened. It was vague in his mind, the memory pushed away firmly as he came to realize that he was in an uncharted territory and that he was currently down-spiralling into a _Hoarding Mode._ He couldn't remember the last time he had went into one, but he couldn't deny the itching that was crawling up the crook of his arms and legs, nor how his eyes had narrowed to pained slits as his fever threatened to make a comeback with his elevated heartbeat. He curled further in on himself, attempting to shut out the lights that shone down on him and made seeing painful. A high keening noise filled his ears, and it took him a moment to recognize the voice as his own.

 

Sherlock still held onto the cake, and already he had begun dragging a few solid items around him. The couch, for one. He hid behind its back, making sure it didn't block his view of any entryways, knees tucked up against his chest as the dessert sat beside him untouched. Elevated stress levels had cut off his hunger from the rest of his body, the desire for safety more pressing and prominent and niggling at the back of his mind like a sore tooth desperate to be pulled. He was shaking, his body seeming determined to tear itself apart even as it desperately looked for more protection. Like a seam unravelling quickly into chaos, the fabric of Sherlock's sanity was beginning to buckle under the pressure of such a shockingly new environment. He teetered on the barest edge of calm, willing to plummet into an icy rage at the first sight of danger. His wings pulsed a thousand flickering colours, unable to keep up with the roaring cocktail that was his emotions.

 

The only thing that still held him in reality and not allowing him to float away into the safety of dull animal instinct was the music that still played softly out of the radio on the shelf. Being plugged into the wall, Sherlock had quickly guessed he'd be unable to move it without killing the mesmerizing melody that played from its speakers. Even now it drifted over him, washing the Dragon with calming waves that kept him from completely losing himself to his inner monster. The sound of music was unfamiliar to him, something he had been deprived of with his life in the Kennels, and yet it drew up vague memories, imprints left to his thoughts to decipher like ill-preserved charcoal smudgings.

The echo of a wild drumbeat in his ears, the lingering flavour of a nameless hymn in Dragon-Tongue left on his lips, tingling with familiarity. The flicker of shadows dancing along the walls, moving to a beat both mysterious and lovely. When Sherlock blinked, the images faded. His mind instead turned to the other fear collecting in the pit of his stomach:

 

Unease.

John wasn't home.

His _Master_ (because Sherlock was in such a state that his will to be as rebellious as possible crumbled to ashes) had left him, and by all accounts had shown no intention of returning. He may have told Sherlock where he was going, but the Dragon found he was struggling to recall the soldier's words. They came slowly to him, thick and sluggish and unreal with his haze of fear. All he could remember was the adrenaline spike, the pounding of his own heartbeat, and how John's eyes for a moment had flashed raw terror before smoothing into their usual caring tone. His hands tightened about his knees, sudden despair drowning him.

Had he gone to the authorities? Would men with weapons and hard scowls drag him away from this strange alternate dimension? Would he finally be put down like a rabid dog, just when he had tasted what he thought might very well be Heaven? Irrationally, he found himself recalling the way the soldier's hands had felt as he had washed his hair, how those rough calluses had so gently picked apart every knot until his curls had finally come apart to hang wildly about his cheeks. Those hands which so easily could have struck out at him had instead cupped his chin, stroked his ears, treated him as something precious and deserved and _important._

 

The Dragon wanted to believe it was some kind of misplaced sense of duty, but John's eyes had held nothing but worry for him since he had arrived, and not the kind of worry that would have normally made Sherlock's skin itch in irritation. It was the kind that was not pitying, but firm and unyielding.  The sort that wielded itself stronger than any blade the Dragon had ever known, and struck deeper than any whip lash. It rendered Sherlock speechless and senseless, and left him feeling so exposed and vulnerable that it was really no wonder he found himself in this state, wings curled about himself and his shoulders trembling as if he were a Hatchling on unsteady legs. There was no logic, and his world had effectively been shattered with just a smile as warm as sunlight itself, and a hand reaching into the darkness that had kept him blind for so long and hopeless.

He did not want to go.

He did not _want_ to _go._

 

His forehead pressed against his knees, Sherlock made a small sound of distress from the depths of his throat. A keening whimper. The thought of leaving hurt in a visceral, terrifying way, like drowning. It weighed on his chest heavy as a stone and made breathing a difficult task. And yet the Dragon couldn't fathom why. There had once been a time not so long ago when he would have sooner died than become some Human's pet, would have taken a thousand beatings if it meant at the end of the day he wore his chains with contempt and scorn.

Now he was facing the fact that he couldn't bring himself to imagining going back to a life where he couldn't expect kindness to wait for him at the door of _**221 B.**_

_Home._

 

His teeth sank into his wrist before he even realized what he was doing, dispelling that thought as a wave of pain came over him and he tasted blood on his lips. Growling slightly, he licked the coppery liquid that coated his teeth. For a moment, it felt like it might steady him. The crimson liquid was so familiar, so vivid, that he felt his head clear in an instant. He almost debated biting himself again, mesmerized by the tingling pain that shot up and down his arm.

It was at that moment that a light knocking came from the front door. The Dragon froze, teeth halfway back to his wrist as he gaped with wide, terrified eyes at the black-painted front door. A chirping, elderly voice drifted to his ears. He did not recognize it.

“ _Woohoo!_ John; dear? Are you in? I just wanted to see how you were doing...”

 

The doorknob rattled slightly, strange hands attempting to turn it. Sherlock tensed, a low and threatening growl bubbling up from his chest. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a vicious snarl, and he felt himself poise to spring as he started to shift into his true form. His skin was just beginning to harden into fury-blue armour when the doorknob seemed finally to yield to the stranger's ministrations.

 

Mrs. Hudson, having wanted to check in on her “kind soldier” was instead left to face a sight that would make most men cower in sheer terror.

The living room of _**221 B**_ was in shambles.

Like a tornado the size of a small planet had gone through it, papers and books lay scattered over upturned furniture all over the floor. One of the twin bookshelves had been dragged halfway across the room, creating a barricade further enforced by the couch (which now lay piteously at is side). There were pieces of cutlery spewed erratically all over the place, knives and spoons lying on top of whisks and medical textbooks as well as a human skull pinned to the wall like some kind of morbid warning right above the door (John had to study anatomy one year in school, he had affectionately named the grinning cranium _Billy_ ). Mrs. Hudson stared at it wide-eyed for a moment, her voice falling silent as she came to hear the rumbling growl that vibrated through the very floorboards of the flat. She turned back towards the couch as she came to notice that a pair of fierce blue-green eyes glared at her in outrage from behind the shadow of the couch.

 

Sherlock leaned back on his haunches and prepared to pounce.


	9. Alone Protects Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers coming up... little graphic... not too bad... just tread carefully :3 
> 
> Beta is still in need of a break because of school work (plus she's editing a crap-tonne of other things at the moment) so please don't hesitate to point anything major out to me! ^_^ I will also be shifting the tags slightly, as I feel like I should probably add some tags to come...
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely comments/kudos! <3

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

_**Dealing With PTSD And Other Psychological Trauma (Mental Health):**  _ _Just Like Humans, Dragons are just as susceptible to forms of psychological trauma. Though the Draconian species as a whole may seem rather invincible to a Human being, one must understand that they are just as likely to come with a past as dark as any Humans. Often Dragons have come under my care as sexual assault survivors, war veterans, and even prisoners of battle. As a result, mental trauma is a sadly common thing I've had to witness. When dealing with any kind of psychological issue a Dragonologist must have above all: Patience. Listen to your Dragon. Communication is important and key. If the trauma appears to be severe, considering getting the help of a trained professional. Allow yourself to be a sound board for your Dragon, offering comfort to them when needed and avoiding situations in which your Dragon could become potentially stressed (See page 533). Ask about triggering factors, such as scents or places that your Dragon may find uncomfortable. Be gentle. Be considerate. And most of all, be there for them._

 

 

Meriath, or “Molly” as she was now apparently aptly nicknamed, had grown up in the Kennels all of her life. Her Mother, once a proud warrior during _The Times Of Blood_ (As the Dragons called the beginning of The War) had been captured as a prisoner, her mate killed in battle by some of the first Human Crusades.

Unable to defend her partner due to the fact that she had been protecting her nest (Molly had a younger brother and sister, but to this day she didn't know what became of their eggs), the proud Dragon had almost managed to succeed in protecting her eldest child from the men that came to take her. If she strained to remember, Molly could still see the flames her mother had spat that night upon the men that had slowly climbed their way up to her den. She could still feel their heat, warming the back of her ears as she had been pressed against her mother's side. If she strained to listen, she could still hear the lullaby she sang for the last night they shared together in that cave.

 

She didn't remember what they did to her.

What became of her mother.

 

Somehow, she suspected she never made it to the Kennels. There was only so much grief a Dragon's heart could stand, and Molly knew that night her mother had watched everything she had ever cared about be torn away from her grasp. The loss of a mate sometimes instantly killed a Dragon, and the loss of a Hatchling was something too terrible to even consider. In fact, there was a word for Dragon's who could not bear children.

 

_SànChu._

 

An insult in the highest degree. A word that Molly knew too well, seeing as when her body reached puberty, it was evident by the mark on her shoulder that she was impotent. For this reason, she hadn't been able to join her sisters in the Breeding Program, and had instead been considered for war service. Unfortunately, it became instantly apparent that though her heart had a great willingness to try, it was not nearly as strong as her brothers' and sisters'. She flinched at the loud sounds of bomb raid drills ringing in the air, whimpered at whips and cowered when the Humans came and roughly grabbed her chin and pulled at her shoulders like she was property to be handled. She only spat fire when in pain, and not out of aggression.

She had come to accept the fact that even if she was chosen for battle, she'd be luckier to be sold as a whore than be faced with becoming a weapon.

 

When Mike had knelt at her Kennel, she had almost believed it to be too good to be true. She has leaned into his touch like she was seeing the sun for the first time, and for an instant the Dragon had almost believed that it was her Mother's hands cupping her face. She had nearly cried, terrified and not understanding when she was thrown into a foul-smelling crate in the back seat of a car and forced to listen to another Dragon's terrifying snarls.

 

However, it soon became apparent to Molly almost as soon as she was taken away from her old home (more like prison) that Mike had absolutely no _clue_ how to care for a Dragon.

 

For one, Molly soon found herself rapidly unsure of where she stood in her new Master's presence. Mike was... different than the Humans she had encountered before. Kinder. He didn't shout at her when she accidentally dropped his favourite mug while trying to make him a cuppa in the morning, nor did he order her around as much as other Masters had. In fact, Molly had found her usually tightly-strung nerves being soothed by the husky but gentle face that would smile at her approvingly when she did something right, which admittedly wasn't all that often. Though she admittedly didn't understand much of Human-Speak, she did know when orders were harsh or cruel, and Mike's tone was never either of those. In fact he was soft.... hesitant almost, and almost reminded her of a Hatchling attempting to be a full-grown adult, all awkward limbs and overly-false confidence. He blushed beet-red when she called him “Master” and stuttered when she had asked him in confused and broken English why she hadn't been hit for failing to prepare him his evening meal. Molly hadn't understood what he said when he placed his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes, but if she had, she might have cried.

 

“You don't have to do that. I....I'm not like them. I couldn't be if I tried....Believe me, I wish I could be sometimes....”

 

She shyly, quietly, grew to like him if not trust him. Maybe it was just because she liked looking after children, but she saw a vulnerability in the young man that made the Mother that had died long ago inside of her rekindle to life.

 

In the end, what had brought the illusion of safety tumbling down had been something horrifyingly simple.

 

Mike hadn't realized that there were certain scents that triggered things in Molly's memory, echoes that triggered her memories of the past. She was no stranger to sexual abuse, and when she woke to the sharp and acrid tang of cologne hanging heavily in the air, her sleep-addled mind immediately snapped to a Master she would have much rather forgotten. Opening her eyes, she saw not the plain bed she had been given to sleep in, but a relic of a past time that made her shudder and cower in fear.

 

_It hurt._

_Chains pulled at her, dragging her unwillingly from her crate as she kicked and cried. Her nails were bloodied from her attempts to grip at the iron bars surrounding her, desperately trying to break free even as the choke collar tightened about her throat. She could feel its burn, tingling up her neck as she spat fire weakly even while coughing up lungfuls of water. They had drenched her before they got ready to pull her out of the cage, and the clear liquid that heaved up her throat was ashen and murky and mixed with the brimstone that normally came with her breath. Soaking and shivering, Molly winced at the bright lights that filled her vision as she was pulled by the neck and wrists across the dirty floor of the club. The name of the place was written in brassy letters, and as her eyes adjusted it was the first thing she saw. She didn't know how to read, but if she had she would have fought if possible harder against her captor's hold._

 

_**The Devil's Pleasure.** _

 

_The air was smoky, she remembered that when she thought back to that night. It choked her, the fake fire-breath that Humans inhaled and breathed out from white sticks they held to their lips. Funny-tasting and foul. It made her sensitive nose wrinkle in distaste, and she curled her wings about her half-Human form to hide her bare body from the lingering eyes that followed her as she was pulled along. The man who led her wore a dark suit and had glittering grey eyes, and he roughly backhanded her when she tried weakly to spit fire. He shouted-coarse, hard words- before lifting The Clicker in the air and brandishing it like a weapon. Molly cowered, the thought of being shocked too terrible to contemplate as she was already hurting so much. She felt so small, surrounded by men so much taller than her and so much more threatening. Lost in a violent hurricane of glittering drinks and lingering hands. She felt filthy and broken in the presence of such opulence, watches glittering gold around wrists and earrings glinting softly and winking at her by the neck's of Humans. She looked so thin, compared to them. So frail. So tiny._

_Molly wondered why then their eyes followed her hungrily, looking at her scaled tail like it was something to be gawked at as they whispered behind their hands. Her eyes flicked restlessly about, her wings clipped to prevent flight. They throbbed in pain._

 

_Her Master, the man in the suit brought her to The Room as she came later to call it. A background place, tucked away behind the bar. She could remember the squeaking of the hinges, louder than her own pounding heart as she was all but thrown inside. She could remember the way she stumbled over the stone steps, nearly toppling and sobbing for mercy when strange arms caught her on the other side. Pressed up against unfamiliar skin, Molly tasted on her tongue the stinging edge of an unfamiliar perfume wafting into her nose._

_Bitter and blistering, something spicy and heavy. It was mixed with breath hot and sour on her cheeks._

 

_And then hands trailing slowly down her arms, pinning her wrists to her sides as slowly she looked up and realized with a whimper that her chains had been shackled to a bed-_

 

That unfortunately, was the moment Mike gently tapped on her bedroom door, wondering if his Dragon wanted any breakfast. He had just been getting ready to go out on a date with a nice girl he'd met at the café down the road, and had even put on a new cologne she had bought him. He opened the door just in time to see Molly's expression crack in fear before he was very suddenly being thrown backwards, and the young soldier cracked his head against the wall and saw stars.

 

Then a dangerous, savage roar shook him from the base of his spine to his toes.

 

****

There was much about Mrs. Lena Hudson that not many people knew. Having moved to London nearly thirty years ago, she had developed a rather prominent British accent overtime, and thus could pass fairly well to an untrained ear and untrained eye. Coming originally from District Seven in America (What used to be Florida), the elderly woman held a fair few trade secrets from her youth that one might not necessarily expect. For instance, she knew how to peel an orange so that its skin would unravel in a perfect spiral, having eaten many in her childhood with her younger sister (now dead and gone, sadly). She also knew how to appreciate a little bit of rain, since her home-town had scarcely been more than a desert during the summer, and so London by comparison was a viable rainforest. But most of all, Lena Hudson knew how to spot a soul that was hurting from a mile away, because she recognized the primal ache that both man and beast tried to hide when the ones they loved wounded them.

 

After all, she had seen it in her own face until the day her husband committed suicide, after going on a killing spree that shocked her small District and effectively alienated her from her friends and family in an instant. The move to London hadn't been a choice of luxury. It had in the end been a _necessity._

Murder did things to a person.

Of that there was no doubt.

 

But finding out that the person you had spent nearly _twenty years_ with was nothing more than a fabricated lie? Well, that in some ways changed a person on an entirely other _level._

 

Lena Hudson was a different woman than she once had been.

Kinder.

Strangely observant at times.

And above all _forgiving._

The fact that she was also fluent in Dragon-Tongue, her husband having taught her as he had a job in training the creatures, was just an added bonus in light of the very bad situation she quite suddenly found herself in.

 

Sherlock's muscles strained with the impressive leap he made over the couch he'd stacked in front of him, half-Human shape landing animalistically on all fours as a threatening snarl emitted from his lips. He landed on the balls of his feet, wings flared protectively about him like massive sails as a shuddering hiss like the air leaving a can of soda rushed from his teeth. He eyed the intruder warily through slitted irises, scales shifting eerie and threatening shades of menacing green and hazard-yellow. He was caught between shifting into his full-form and staying in his half one, still too strung out to think coherently, unsure if the small creature before him can be considered a sufficient threat. She stood firm but mousy-looking before him, and the logical part of his brain insisted she'd be no more than a mouthful to eat in his full-form. Still her eyes are strangely clear and omniscient, and she gazed at Sherlock unflinchingly though her knuckles curl at her sides and give away her suppressed fear. Her scent was calm, and lingered in the air the faint aroma of chocolate and orchids. It made Sherlock think immediately of the cake still lying tucked away behind his fortress, and for a moment his growls faded away into a faint sound of confusion as his stomach gurgled piteously. Though in the next instant he reigned in his biological betrayal, the old woman before him smiled kindly, seeming to have heard his silent protest. When she opened her mouth, Sherlock tensed, preparing to lash out at the slightest provocation. Sweat beaded the back of his neck, the desire to _hunthuntprotectmaim_ _ **FIGHT-**_

Still humming in his blood.

 

Instead, he found a soft, whispered greeting in a tongue he knew but was scarcely allowed to use.

 

“ _Næchen, Hershetz li Ȑost.” (Greetings, young lord.)_

 

Sherlock's growls cut short, confusion lacing his features as he inhaled deeply, searching for a taint of Dragon. He found only Human scent before him, deceptively soft and fragile. He growled out a curt response without thinking, slowly drawing himself upright as vague imprints of manners pulled at him. Foolish traits he should have abandoned long ago and yet could not delete. When he spoke, his voice rasped from disuse. The Dragon realized with some surprise that he had not spoken in a very long time. It would not do to be impolite, if only because tradition mandated so.

 

“ _Næchen, salFah li, ermiest Fochen. Șyandor?” (Greetings, Mistress. You are a stranger, the blonde one has not told me your purpose. What is your purpose here?)_

 

He noticed her accent was a little flawed as she replied, but she kept the flute-like tone of Dragon-Tongue surprisingly well as she smiled at him, seemingly delighted by his response. Sherlock was still on-guard, and he felt a petty instinct to scream _MINE_ as he saw how her feet hovered just outside the threshold of _**221 B.**_

 

“ _Fochen dai Gah. Irch John Tariel hist faust.” (The blonde one is a **Son**_ (For Dragons were known to think of friends as family) _To me. His name is John, and he lets me into his territory)_

 

Sherlock reared on his hind legs, standing like a Human in order to appear as imposing as possible. He felt a slow snarl rumble in his chest like thunder as his eyes flashed with mistrust, teeth bared and once again poised on the blade of a knife.

 

“ _ESHAT! Ẅo shuben Tariel John! Eshat... Yersh Koshken Trast.” (LIAR. All lies as John has let no one into his territory before! Liar... The Gods will eat your heart for half-truths....)_

 

Mrs. Hudson did not flinch, not even when Sherlock began to breathe mist about her. It floated around the room, fogging her vision and sending cool prickles of moisture to settle on her skin. She resisted the urge to shiver, standing her ground despite the Dragon's size and fury. She had learned that with those that were trying to bully, their bark was often worse than their bite. Though she somehow didn't think this creature made a habit of it, there was no doubt now that Sherlock was doing everything in his power in order to force her to subjugate.

 

“ _Yersh Naust Nen. John ashkera naun?” (I do not believe in wrathful Gods. Where is your John?)_

 

She watched as the Dragon flinched at her implication, eyes widening before narrowing into slits. His scales flashed the colour of starlight itself before turning a sulky grey, his petulance incredibly obvious, though he made an effort to hide it. He masked his hurt by huffing scathingly

 

“ _Nen. Nen John. Ishka. Ishka est ert.” (No. Not my John. Alone. I am alone.)_

 

He crossed his arms over his chest, a brief flicker of pride glittering in his eyes before he thought about what he just said. The emptiness of his own sentence shook him.

Then the mighty beast seemed to deflate, the fight draining out of his limbs as the weight of his own words hung heavily on him. His storm-blue eyes cooled to an ashen grey as his body instinctively tried to curl in on itself, his body crouching once more into a defensive ball as his wings hid the pain behind his false indifference. The old woman didn't know that she'd hit the exact nerve that Sherlock has been striking himself all day, the sensation raw and painful as he clutched at his wrists which bled sluggishly now and contemplated hiding back behind the sofa. He was surprised when after a beat of breath, the woman's soft voice called him from the barrier of his wings. He could make out the outline of her, curled hair and purple dress and arthritic hands. Soft edges and a hidden smile.

 

She spoke with a weight of wisdom that seemed larger than such a small body could bear. Surely, something so frail couldn't sound so certain of her own words. Not when Sherlock himself couldn't speak without shaking.

 

“ _Ishka ert? Nen. John. Fraulen essix dkath.” (You're alone? No. John. John's been there to help)_

 

“ _John hautch. Ishka ghaus Shyior....” (John Left. Alone is what I have...)_

And then, softer. Like a whisper of death. His hands curled into fists in his lap, knuckles turning white.

 

“ _Ishka Xiaoli.” (Alone Protects me.)_

 And in that moment, Sherlock doubted his own words. 

He wished, just once in his life, he could dare to be wrong.


	10. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, fair warning for possible triggers. :3 
> 
> Thanks again for all the lovely comments and constructive criticism! I love it all! <3
> 
> Hope you enjoy! This and the next chapter are the turning points for the boys.
> 
> almost forgot, I have a tumblr account now, so if you want to follow that way, you can. :)
> 
> http://twistedthicket1.tumblr.com/

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Comforting A Dragon (The action of):** _What many people fail to realise is that Dragons when they are in vulnerable states of mind are extremely physical creatures. In a natural environment, a Dragon grows up amidst brothers and sisters, as well as several relatives all living in one den. As a Hatchling they are rarely for want of physical affection (see page 444 for special exceptions) and so as adults when in distress a Dragon may want some semblance of physical touch. A Dragon's skin is extremely sensitive, and for a mate or a family member to offer a reassuring hand when needed is important. Dragon's also have an extremely sensitive sense of smell, and may want to 'surround' themselves with scents they find comforting (refer back to hoarding page). This could be the smell of a mate or close friend, or a child if the Dragon has Hatchlings. Prolonged isolation will almost always bear a negative effect on a Dragon's mental health, and it is advised to get to know other Dragons in the neighbourhood so that your Dragon will never feel too alone. Of course, once back to a regular state of mind, a Dragon will most likely like to pretend to be aloof from such affection. This is why it is good to treasure the rare moments when your Dragon opens up to you, as the action of doing so shows a great deal of trust between two friends. _

 

 

The first thing John realised was that he could smell smoke. Like brimstone, it filled the air heavily as Mike opened the door. John gaped at his friend as he took in the man's frazzled appearance, jaw hanging open as he found himself staring at a black shadow rather than his friend. Mike was covered in what looked to be charcoal, the streaky black lines smeared across his cheeks and hands, covering his dark brown hair and turning it ashen and dull in the sun. He blinked at John through the soot rimming his glasses, seeming for a second not to recognise him until all of a sudden his eyes widened and he tugged his friend inside by an iron-grip to his sleeve.

 

Once inside, John saw with no surprise that most of the windows to Mike's small but posh flat were open. This was to help the brackish smoke that hung low in the air to ventilate, and wisps of it curled out into the air. Both of them coughed as the door closed, John's sounding much healthier than his friend's. Mike's cough sounded like he had been spending his free time inside a furnace, which given the scene laid out before him, John supposed was true.

 

Though Mike had lived in a slum district, it was a little known secret that John's friend didn't originally come from a poor name. His Mother, a woman named Willow Evelyn, had been distantly related to the Monarchy, before the War came and turned the government into a thinly veiled dictatorship. Said women in her time had arrived in the poorer district on the eve of a ghostly train in the middle of the night. She had no tags, barely any luggage to her name, and had been in tears when Mike's Father had met her at the Inn she stayed at that night. A barkeeper, and a shy one at that, he had been at first reluctant to pry into the woman's story. She had been a solitary figure, dark brown hair hiding her face and her melancholy just barely hidden from sight as she had stared into her drink. When he finally had gotten the nerve to approach her, he found out that Willow had run away from her home.

 

When he asked why, she had only ever responded with simply

“I needed to get away. I just wanted to get away....”

 

He had eventually introduced himself as Charles. Charles Stamford. The story went that she smiled at him, and in that moment her watery blue eyes had lit up her features to a warming glow, and the young man had realized with a start that he was completely smitten.

 

They had married within the year.

Though Mike's Mother had long passed (sickness, there had been a coughing disease one winter that took many people) her legacy it appeared had lived on. When Mike had attended her funeral, he had discovered that his Mum had kept more money than he knew tucked away for him.

 

She had also left him the flat, which even though it was obviously beautiful, was currently blazing in flame.

 

Mike on his part, seemed to be handling the entire thing relatively well. At least, he was crying instead of screaming. Which was perfectly reasonable, considering John felt like screaming himself as he realised what he had gotten himself into.

There was fire flickering amongst foam from a fire extinguisher, the walls blackened with the paint beginning to curl and flake in the air. Leather chairs had been over-toppled in the hallway, picture frames smashed to bits. Glass crunched underfoot as John stepped forward like gravel, loud in the eerie silence of the flat that was only punctuated by the crackling of live flame.

 

John was about to ask what exactly happened, when his query was cut off with a rumbling that he felt from the base of his spine to the tips of his toes. It was a terrible noise, gut-wrenching and distinctly predatory, the kind that made a man's hair stand on end and his knees tremble. At least it would have, if John hadn't grown quite used to such noises from his life with Sherlock as of late. Mike watched with some trepidation and surprise as his friend sighed a put-upon sigh, scratching the back of his neck before seeming to level his shoulders in silent determination. When he unzipped the edge of his jacket and pulled out a thick green-covered tome, Mike raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

 

“You're sure reading is the right thing to do? I managed to lock her in the bedroom, but that door's not going to hold for long.”

As if to punctuate that statement, the terrible cracking of splintering hinges echoed throughout the flat. It was followed by another hair-raising roar. Smoke billowed down the stairs.

 

John looked at his friend, and Mike saw something glimmer in those blue eyes that he had never noticed before. A sort of spark, something heated that flashed like lightning cresting a storm in a dark field. It took him a moment to realise what it was, and when he did he considered the idea that John Watson might be just a bit mad.

It was excitement, a craving to chase the dangerous.

Except it wasn't over Molly.

Because even Mike could tell that John's thoughts were far away when he easily replied

 

“Lately I've had to deal with worse.”

 

****

Mrs. Hudson (As she had introduced herself to him cheerily) didn't seem to much care for Sherlock's obvious barriers around his horde. Though she was careful not to step directly into his little corner of territory, she had a tendency to flutter just outside on the edge. Though Sherlock snarled at her whenever she tried to move anything he had claimed as “his”, she was determined it seemed to right the flat as much as she could. Overturned chairs turned back onto their legs, the table which still had dishes on it from this morning was cleaned, and she hummed to herself a small, nameless tune even while smiling under the Dragon's suspicious glare.

 

Though Sherlock wanted nothing more than for the old woman to leave him alone, there was something decidedly Motherly about her presence, and the small instinct he had to respect the elderly niggled at him just enough to keep him from hurting her. He tried to tell himself it was for that reason at least, and not because her company kept away some of the dark thoughts that were circling his mind as he curled back into the corner behind the couch. Absently, he nibbled on a piece of cake as his sharp eyes ran over the old woman, the chocolatey flavour rich and sweet on his tongue. It was good, really,  _really_  good, and illogically Sherlock's brain tried to tell him that anyone with this kind of cooking ability couldn't be evil.

 

Instead he licked his lips when she wasn't looking and went for another piece, carefully gathering data about John's strange housekeeper (Whatever  _that_  was) even while listening to the soft song the old woman sang.

 

_In her mid to late seventies, suffered from an abusive mate. Now long dead murder charges pressed. Grew up not in London but somewhere in America, probably Florida given that her skin has grown up with a slight tan and she seems to be around the right age for the large immigration that happened when the War began. Likes to sew and watch crap telly, is gentle and owns no Dragon. However has owned one before, or at least interacted with them given her knowledge with language. Husband's job? Highly probable. More data needed. Bakes sweets._

 

The radio had long since stopped playing, if he strained he could make out the edges of lyrics to Mrs. Hudson's song.

 

_Three little children dancing in the sun, oh la, dee day la dee day,_

_One shoots water into the sky for fun oh la, dee day la dee day,_

_One breathes fire, paints the sun oh la, dee day la dee dee day._

_The last brings snow, turning the world so white oh la, dee day oh la dee day,_

_Then all must leave, time to go home oh la, dee day dee day._

 

It was a simple little rhyme, but Sherlock recognised the meaning behind the lyrics easily. He guessed it to be from before the War began, as such songs weren't sung very often by Humans any more. Anything that glorified Dragons in any way had been banned from teaching in schools. Sherlock knew because he had been a servant of families before. The children had always looked at him with a complicated mix of mistrust and fascination, and he had reciprocated the stares more often than not with a glower of his own.

 

Though he understood Human-Speak far better than he was about to let on, he surprised himself when he found his thoughts following the tune, something hypnotic and light about the melody that drew his interest. Mouth still sweet from the lingering taste of chocolate, Sherlock was slightly irritated as he realised the soft, rumbling and vulnerable noise that echoed throughout the flat was coming from himself. He rolled his eyes as he took into account the fact that he was all but crying like a bloody Hatchling, and instead found himself curling more tightly into his protective ball. If Mrs. Hudson heard the noise, she was good enough not to comment. 

 

The fact was, Sherlock felt like he was drifting, and he wasn't sure what to use to keep him connected to reality. There were so many thoughts in his head, each one destructive and demanding. Like sitting in the eye of the storm, he felt like he was watching them all tear each other apart. He could only try to pluck one at a time from the hurricane, shelter one thought from the desolation. For some reason, the one he kept picking was at once brutally honest as it was horrifying.

 

_I want him to come home. I want this to be my home. I don't want to be alone...._

 

He was unaware when Mrs. Hudson carefully stepped into his hoard, singing halting as she brought something held carefully in her hands. When she reached the edge of the couch she stopped, listening for a moment to the high keening growls that the Dragon made as he tried to make himself shrink into a sharp bundle of elbows and knees. It was the same sort of noise that she had watched Hatchlings make when they had been separated from their Mothers too early. A kind of broken burble, one that had often pulled her heartstrings even when she had still been married. To hear it coming from a fully grown Dragon, a creature that should be strong and fierce and proud, it broke her heart.

 

She didn't know if it would work, but she was willing to try. Carefully she leaned forward, still aware of the hidden strength in Sherlock's limbs that could tear her apart. She made full moves, certain that he knew she was there even if was only subconsciously.

 

Sherlock barely felt it when she wrapped around his thin shoulders something woollen and soft, his mind instead latching onto the scent that filled his nostrils. Immediately he clutched the fabric about his wiry frame, brushing his cheek against the oatmeal jumper before he could help himself and inhaling deeply.

The growingly familiar scent of tea and warmth filled him, calming his pounding heart and making him floaty with relief. Like a spring being uncoiled, he could feel the energy leaving him, draining out of his limbs like water. It was at once both soothing and distressing, how easily one person's scent could calm the roaring in his mind. He wanted to fight it, but it was like a balm to a flaming wound, and he could have cried with relief. Instead he stopped whimpering, small sounds turning into a half-ashamed purr of content. Guilty.

 

Sherlock looked at the woman carefully before him, half sure she'd mock him for his weakness. However she didn't seem to mind, sitting on the couch backwards to face him and watch his reaction carefully. The Dragon wanted to be mad. He wanted to be able to rage and spit ice and snarl, but everything was suddenly too much to handle. He felt himself slipping, and for some reason that scared him almost as much as it was delightful.

 

Mrs. Hudson smiled as the Dragon's hunched frame finally started to relax, not surprised in the slightest when Sherlock's chin began to hang forward, sleep tugging the Dragon firmly. She pulled on his hand gently, no longer quite so worried he'd attack her in a moment's notice, laying him out gently on the floor before standing to grab an afghan and some pillows. When she returned, she was surprised to see that the massive wings and curling horns that had been Sherlock's last vestiges of protection were gone. In fact, the man that lay curled around a woollen jumper before her looked shockingly Human. If it weren't for the thick collar encircling his throat, one would never be able to tell. His bare form was covered with old wounds and bruises, and the old woman tutted sadly before throwing the blanket around his huddled form. The Dragon muttered slightly, fighting sleep for a second longer as he looked at her with hazed blue-green eyes. His voice was soft and childish, and a thousand times more fragile than Sherlock would ever be willing to admit. Though the murmurs were in Dragon-Tongue, Mrs. Hudson understood the question asked completely.

 

“ _He will come back, won't he? He won't go....?”_

 

Smiling, the old woman patted the Dragon's knee softly before cupping his head, lifting it up to tuck a pillow underneath. Her hands were warm, Sherlock thought. Small and wrinkled but gentle.

He tucked his nose back against the jumper, dreams already filtering into his mind. Flickers of images. Stars. Snow.  _Sleep._

 

He barely heard her response, but it carried into his dreams. Wrapped him up safely in comfort, because the Dragon couldn't help but trust the old woman, and coasted silently into the waves of his mind.

 

“ _Where else would he go?”_

 

****

Molly smelled it when someone else entered her and Mike's territory. A Dragon's nose was at least five times stronger than a Human's, and she picked up the vaguely familiar scent even though she was disoriented and wasn't quite sure what was going on.

 

She knew that somehow, what had happened to her room was her fault. There were small patches of fire everywhere, the smoke alarm (which had been turned off in a moment of foresight from Mike) barely visible on the ceiling from the haze that blurred everything. It didn't affect Molly's breathing, being a Dragon, but she knew right away that Humans could die from smoke asphyxiation and immediately looked around in panic for her Master. He was nowhere in sight.

However her terror receded when she found she could smell him, his presence still in the flat. Next to a stranger's scent. She couldn't remember what had happened, but when she went to cautiously open the door to her bedroom she found with a jolt that the door was locked.

 

Mike had  _never_ locked her in before. The thought in itself was immediately distressing. She did not like locked doors, did not like rooms she could not leave. Molly tugged a little, hoping the lock was just stuck. It held firm. A bubbling panic began to fill her as she tried to remember what had happened.

 

Closing her eyes, the images came in disjointed shards. Fractured scenes, playing out in her head in such a way that they made no sense.

Cloying perfume.

Fear, crawling over her skin and tightening around her throat like a metal band, pulling a noose that constricted her breathing and made everything burn

_-Don't  hurt me. Please don't hurt me stop-_

 

Mike's terrified face.

Smoke and the brilliant scarlet-orange of molten flame.

 

Things that did not make sense. Molly tried to force the memories, to recall what had just happened, and came up against a stubborn wall that refused to be budged. She swallowed the instinctive cry that wanted to leave her throat, panicked thoughts coming to a dawning horror as her mind demanded answers.

 

_Where is my Master?_

_Is he okay?_

 

_Who is the stranger?_

 

She didn't have long to wait to find out the answer. Molly's ears pricked as she heard two sets of footsteps walking determinedly up the stairs. Baring her teeth, she hunched into a small, defensive position away from the door, wine-red wings flared in warning.

 

However, nobody came to barge into her room. Curiously enough, the footsteps paused right outside the door. Tails whipping in confusion, she waited tensely for some kind of assault or attack, a low growl rumbling in her chest as smoke drifted from between her gritted teeth. A soft, unfamiliar voice drifted to her, Human-Speak slow and deliberate, firm in its question. It took her a moment, but she understood what was being asked.

 

“ _My name is John Watson. I'm a friend of Mike's. I'm not going to harm you. I promise. Can we come in to your territory?”_

 

For a moment she feared it was a trick question. Molly had never been asked before. She had never been anything but ordered. Surely it was some trick. She waited patiently for the order, tail twitching in impatience. However, none came. Soon the question came again, this time in Mike's quavering voice, and the Dragon realised in shock that John Watson had been serious. She felt herself sway lightly in place with the force of it, not knowing quite what to do. Her confusion must have manifested in some noise or another, because her Master's voice spoke softly.

 

“I'm not mad Molly. I just want to help you. You're scaring me is all.”

 

_Scaring? Was she scary?_

 

Molly thought, wondering with fear what she had done. She looked into the mirror, cracked and broken from an event she couldn't remember, and realised with a jolt that she looked terrifying. Her copper-brown locks were messy and wild, her dark brown eyes slitted in defence. Her teeth had become angular and pointed in rage, and her wings billowed behind her in great big sails, tearing a hole into the back of the nightgown Mike had bought for her. Her tail curled ruby-red about her legs, dark spines glinting dangerously. She didn't know what had happened.

 

Would she be punished? If so, she should let them in. Better to be agreeable than draw things out and make them angry. She shook at the thought.

 

Drawing a deep breath, she used what little broken English she knew to affirm her consent, hoping her voice didn't waver.

 

“You can come in.”

 

Still it was a moment before they did, and quite a while longer until Molly fully realised what had happened.

 

John watched after nearly an hour of gentle coaxing as Molly curled herself around Mike, sobbing into his neck like a small child and winding her tail about his middle protectively. She begged forgiveness, trying to explain in broken English why she had reacted that way and what had made her scared. Clutching to him like she didn't want to let go, her voice came in a high and broken rasp that sounded so small and scared for something with so much killing potential. Though her grammar wasn't perfect, both men understood enough that John's hands tightened into fists for the tiny, sweet dragon and Mike's cheeks flushed red in unspeakable anger.

 

Sobbing, Molly hiccuped apologies but continued to cling to her Master, horrified that she had nearly barbecued him over something that wasn't his fault. She couldn't bear to look either man in the eye, fearing punishment almost as much as she wanted it over with. Yet no harsh blows or words came, and after a beat of silence, she looked up to see Mike looking down at her with wide-eyed sadness. When his lips moved, she didn't understand what he said.

 

“I-I never knew..... I never- They never told me-”

 

The young man cut off, biting his lip. He looked at John, eyes wide and pleading. John could see the betrayal in that gaze, the shock that anyone could  _do_ this to another person.

_Except they're not people in the government's eyes, are they?_

_  
_John's mind whispered tauntingly

_Really, they're little more than livestock....._

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop the flood of anger that made him suddenly want to hit something. Mike continued to talk, oblivious to his friend's anger.

 

“Is.... is this normal? Is this what happens to them?? How they  _break_  them?”

Mike spat the word  _break_ , large and trusting eyes threatening to fill with tears of his own. It was obvious his Dragon didn't really understand much English, but she recognised the wounded and vulnerable tone. Soft, comforting sounds came from her throat as she clutched to him tighter, her body like a furnace of heat that John could feel even from where he sat. The way Mike held her was like an older brother protecting his sister, and his friend's mind suddenly flashed to Sherlock when they had been in the bath.

 

_Don't touch me._

 

John's throat was uncharacteristically tight. His stomach felt like it was twisting itself into tight knots, layer upon layer until his abdomen felt swollen with it. Like he had swallowed stones, it took John a while before he could speak evenly, and when he could he cringed as if the action burned him. 

 

“It's.... common.... the book says.....it has a lot of tips on how to help with this sort of thing.....”

 

Mike's eyes flicked to the heavy tome, now tucked once again into John's jacket. Just the edge of it peeked out from the open zipper, and Mike found his lips twisting into a small grimace of worry. He had seen the title of it, despite John's obvious wish to keep its contents secret, and Mike knew for a fact that it wasn't just a book you could buy off the internet.

 

“Where did you  _get_ that thing mate? Christ it has to be  _illegal_  on so many different levels....”

 

His friend didn't reply, instead fixing him with a small, desperate look.

“Please Mike. You can't tell anyone.  _Please._ They'll take him away if I can't care for him-”

 

John broke off, the thought sending a spike of pain through his chest. He was so, so  _close_ to finally gaining Sherlock's trust. Already he feared his absence would cause setbacks. He chafed to get home, now that it was evident that Molly would no longer be destructive. He needed to make sure Mrs. Hudson was okay, and that life at  _ **221 B**_ was as it had been when he had left. More than anything, he dreaded going back to the silence of the flat, the cold loneliness that had lingered in it before. It was strange, but ever since Sherlock had entered his life, John hadn't been bored. Suddenly, life had a purpose and an interest, and its name was Sherlock the Dragon. He no longer felt an oppressive need for routine, no longer felt as if the days dragged on. The idea of someone coming and taking the Dragon away, just when John felt Sherlock was beginning to trust him was painful. He could picture the betrayed look on the creature's face, picture how wide those blue-green eyes would get before narrowing into slits of hatred. It couldn't happen, John wouldn't let it. He glared at Mike, willing him to see that he wasn't going to budge until his friend agreed.

 

Mike had known John for a long time, and never had he seen such a willingness to fight.

Such fierce protectiveness.

 

Holding Molly, he thought he understood. There was something wonderful and strange about Dragons, something at once terrifying and magnetizing. There was an adrenaline, brushing elbows with something so dangerous, and a pride at earning their trust. As it was, he couldn't imagine ever purposefully hurting his own Dragon. Despite what everyone warned against, it was impossible to look into Molly's eyes and see nothing but a small and scared girl, and Mike knew that it was that reason that had lead him to picking her in the first place. He wasn't even attracted to Molly in a romantic way, like he half-suspected John was to Sherlock. Still, he'd be more than willing to die trying to protect her.

 

If John's Dragon was even remotely the same, then he'd have to fight his friend tooth and nail to give something like that up.

 

With a sigh, Mike hung his head, knowing he was screwed. Keeping his voice low he ran soothing circles under the collar around Molly's neck, pleased when his Dragon slowly began to relax against him.

“Fine. But if you get caught I am  _not_ involved. I'm  _not_ kidding. If someone arrests you, I won't vouch on your side.”

 

He tried to sound firm, but Mike's eyes were glittering with resignation. Both knew instantly that he was lying. John's face broke out into a wide grin, and he heaved a sigh of relief. Reaching out to pat Mike once on the shoulder, the blonde young man chuckled.

 

“Well, fine then. Next time don't come crying to me when something goes wrong.”

 

John smirked at the horrified look Mike gave him in response. 


	11. Action And Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, next chapter! :3 Hope you enjoy! Thank you all for the lovely comments and kudos as always, the boys are now reunited finally :D  
> Soon they'll be off to war!

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**_Possessiveness  In Dragons (Nature of): _ ** _Dragons are naturally possessive creatures. They feel a need to own things and to claim, which is obvious when faced with a Dragon's **Hoarding Instinct** (See page 553 for details). However, even outside of times of extreme stress, it is good for a Dragon to be able to exercise control over things. A Dragon that does not own things can easily fall into depression and become listless, and have trouble finding self-worth in themselves. This is partially because of natural instinct, but also because of a Dragon's childhood. In tradition, the Mother of the egg is given Gifts by their family members and surrounding tribes, so that the Hatchling isn't born without a sense of safety and completion. Some Dragons may feel a need to 'Claim' perceived family members and friends, especially if they do not have much to claim for themselves to begin with. It is a perfectly harmless action, and can be shown in simple things such as  **Scenting** (marking the Human with their own smell by rubbing or petting or simple touch) and worry when said person leaves their sight.  **Mating** is a deeper kind of possessiveness, and markedly different from most other Bonding rituals (see page 483 section C for details)._

 

 

 

John finally got home by the time mid-afternoon rolled around, his errands having left him laden with bags of both groceries and new clothes for Sherlock. The tea-tree oil smelled sharp and strange amongst the other simple ingredients, and as he made his way up the stairs he couldn't help but wonder if the other Dragons within the flat complex could smell it. Lord knows it had made him rather desensitized by the time he made it back to  _ **221 B.**_ He was in a rush, already worried that he had spent so much time away. He had been forced to navigate through the riot again, and then he had nearly missed his bus and had bumped into on exceedingly short-tempered old woman who insisted he apologise profusely. As a result, John was already itching in his skin, worried that if a  _White-  Card _like Molly could set a building on fire, what the likes of Sherlock might do all alone.

 

However even the strongest scent of tea-tree oil or stress couldn't mask the warm smell of chocolate biscuits set to bake as John looked about anxiously for Mrs. Hudson, trying to catch a glimpse of the old woman in hopes that she hadn't been eaten. Fortunately, he caught the last dying note of her chirpy voice singing a melody, his shoulders relaxing as he noted with some surprise that the door to his flat was open. Listening for any sign of danger (namely, one severely pissed off Dragon) John cautiously approached closer.

 

The sight that was laid out before him was something from a faerie tale.

 

Or maybe a horror film.

 

His flat was a mess. Everything that hadn't been bolted to the floor was upturned, creating a massive, wall-like fort in the corner of the living room taller than John. Like a storm had literally ripped through his kitchen, shattered pieces of dish-ware were scattered about, the chips having been swept haphazardly onto one side of the room by a certain landlady. Mrs. Hudson herself stuck her head out of the kitchen in greeting as John stood and gaped, eyes crinkling in amusement and concern when she saw the young man's face. For a moment, she watched him struggle to find his voice, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of mess that had been created in his relatively short absence.

 

When he finally did, John's voice came out as a sort of squeaking croak.

“What....  _What happened?_ ”

 

The sound of his voice cued a low rumbling from the other side of the room, behind the couch. John quickly dropped his load of groceries, preparing himself just in time as a flash of murderous-red scales twisted themselves sinuously out from behind the barricade. John caught a glimpse of Sherlock, half-transformed and clearly furious, lunging expertly over the toppled bookshelf before he was slammed to the ground roughly on his back, the air knocked out of him as the soldier had a second of blind panic as he came face to face with slitted blue-green eyes and sharp teeth. John's eyes closed, bracing himself for some kind of attack. He had finally lost. He was going to be eaten, and poor Mrs. Hudson would have to watch, and his face would be plastered all over the news and they'd likely pick that one photo from secondary school that he absolutely  _despised_ and-

 

It took him a moment to realise that Sherlock's rather long and tactile tail, which  _should_ have been lashing out behind him like an angry whip, was instead curling itself about John's middle, effectively constricting him in a hug that had a grip like iron. The Dragon's hands, which should have been digging in to John's throat, were instead bunched rather tightly in his jumper, effectively stretching the collar as Sherlock's scales cooled to a determined sand-blasted gold. John looked up to find his nose inches away from the Dragon's, and his mouth fell open as a rumbling, protective growl ripped through the creature's chest, vibrating John from head-to-toe. The soldier gaped and struggled for air as all of a sudden, he was being held like he was some kind of living security blanket, the pressing weight of Sherlock's body threatening to crack his ribs as the creature's tail wound itself about tightly.

 

John had almost forgotten Mrs. Hudson was still in the flat, as he became rather preoccupied with the fact that the creature that had refused to even  _touch_ him a day ago was pressing his nose against the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent deeply. The old woman's voice was bright and chipper, yet vaguely scolding as she stepped out of the kitchen to see the sight of the two boys sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room. She waved a spatula not unlike a weapon.

 

“Now  _Sherlock_ is that any way to behave? Sorry John dear, I  _did_ tell him you'd be back, but the poor thing's gone into a  _ **Hoarding Mode**_ and has been worrying himself sick. He's gotten a mite better, but he's still not out of it yet.”

 

As if to punctuate her statement, Sherlock let loose a warning snarl as John tried to shimmy his way out of the creature's grip. With those teeth so perilously close to his neck the soldier froze, slowly relaxing into the Dragon's hold even as his spine began to ache from being pinned to the floor. His mind shuffled through what he had learned from  _ **The Book Of Dragonology**_, trying to recall what it said to do in extremely tactile situations. He guessed it had something to do with avoiding having his throat ripped out, as it was at the forefront of his mind even as he could feel himself being slowly dragged over towards the little nest of couch and blankets and clothes Sherlock had made for himself using John's wardrobe.

 

Mrs. Hudson watched it all with fond amusement, eyes crinkling at the corners even as her mouth fought to keep back a smile. She didn't appear overly worried for John's safety, and he soon found out why when she explained.

 

“He honestly thought you weren't coming back. I'm not sure how much English he understands, but I don't think your message got through to him before you left. He  _did_  eat though.”

 

John could see that as he was rather effortlessly hoisted over the barrier of the couch, Sherlock treating him not unlike a rag doll despite his protests and kicking. The Dragon's side felt like it was made of iron when John's foot connected with it, the scales making it so he didn't even leave a bruise. There was an empty plate where the cake used to sit, and the Dragon kicked it aside with one foot before sitting back down and resuming his protective tail-curl around John's middle. John sighed, giving Mrs. Hudson a small, pleading look before turning to the creature beside him, who was very much in control and very much  _naked_ , which was awkward as John was all but sitting in Sherlock's lap. He glared up at the Dragon, attempting to be firm even when inside he was silently panicking at the creature's impossible strength.

 

“Look here you big scaly git, I've got some things for you and I can't reach them if you insist on crushing me to death. As much as it's nice to know that  _someone_ wants me home at the end of the day, it'd be nice to have all my ribs intact.”

 

He was surprised when a rumbling voice in his head bothered to answer, the tone remarkably similar to a huff.

 

_**Don't be ridiculous. I am not exerting nearly enough pressure to break bone. And if I could resist my baser instincts, I would not hesitate to let you go. As it is I am mildly...... Disabled at the moment...** _

“....Disabled. Right.”

 

John murmured, rolling his eyes slightly when in response the Dragon made a small affirmative noise and continued to nose along his shoulder. The gesture was strangely intimate to John, and he found himself flushing harder than he should have been when he caught Mrs. Hudson's eye. Shaking himself out of his momentary daze, John realised that Sherlock was actually figuring out where he had been by scent when the Dragon's rumbling voice spoke into his thoughts.

 

_**Brimstone.... Fire Dragon....Female.....Another Human, Male..... You've been to Tesco's and gotten milk and other essentials.... and a clothing store....higher end since that's all District Three has.....** _

 

The Dragon looked at John quizzically then, dark brows lowering in slight confusion as he looked at John with a mix of apprehension and fear. It soon melted into carefully-masked panic as Sherlock abruptly released John, standing to quickly begin pushing the couch back to its original space.

 

_**Please forgive me for my momentary lapse, Master. I will have this cleaned up in a moment. I apologise, please don't replace me with a fire-breather.** _

 

The words running along in John's head fast-descended into babbling, the noise swelling into a mixture of pleas for forgiveness and desperation before the soldier cut it off soundly with an exhalation of breath.

 

“ _Amazing.”_

 

Sherlock froze, half leaning against the toppled bookshelf. His scales turned from a cowering shade of grey-black to a surprised white. Like the inside of a lily, it tinged with a slow, glowing pink as the Dragon turned in confusion, looking at John like had just grown a second head instead of offering him a compliment. Sherlock's eyes were wary, on the lookout for sarcasm or deceit. His irises were wide and round, and in the light of the sun streaming through the living room window, almost clear. John; immediately worried that he had said something out of place, hastened to fix his mistake.

 

“Sorry, I won't compliment you if you don't like it. I didn't mean-”

_**Say it again.** _

 

The rumbling voice cut him off, and neither of the boys noticed Mrs. Hudson quietly excusing herself from the room. Sherlock was quivering in place, knuckles tightened about the edge of the shelf until they were bleached white, his scales an odd mix of cautious pink and worried grey. John looked at the Dragon for a moment in confusion, until slowly realisation dawned on him, and he took a gentle step forward.

 

“Amazing.” He repeated softly, reaching out one hesitant hand as if to brush Sherlock's shoulder. The Dragon flinched initially away, but then leaned into the touch as the soldier continued.

“ _Brilliant_. Has no one ever told you that before? How do you do it? It really is a fantastic....”

 

John's words trailed off as Sherlock continued to look at him, eyes getting wider and wider, trembling increasing exponentially until a mini-earthquake could be felt rippling through the floorboards. Before either of them really realised what was happening, John was stroking the top of Sherlock's head, fingers running through his dark curls soothingly. The Dragon didn't cling to him like before, but some of his shaking stilled. Wordlessly, Sherlock curled against the touch as if he was afraid when he opened his half-closed eyes it'd be his imagination. To John's surprise, he found the scales over Sherlock's body slowly start to recede, wings folding until they disappeared entirely. The curling horns atop the creature's head disappeared under the soldier's hands, and Sherlock's slitted eyes became rounded and Human. Right before John's eyes, he found himself staring at a man, half-starved and skinny but very much  _real_ and very much bruised and wounded. Though Sherlock refused to cower, he kept his eyes trained on the floor, the rules of every Slave Master that had owned him ringing in his ears that this was  _wrong_ that he should be punished not  _rewarded._

 

Only when warm hands cupped his chin, lifting it gently did the Dragon dare to meet John's gaze, and what he saw made his heart beat faster, and a strange, choking feeling claw at his throat that he had to visibly swallow to control.

 

“Listen to me, and listen good Sherlock.” John said firmly, his gaze like starlight, bright and open and guiding.

“I know you don't know me very well, and I can hardly claim to know you. But you need to understand something about me, and I need to set some things straight. I will  _never_  punish you for things you can't control. I won't  _ever_  give physical or sexual punishment, and you are to  _tell me_ if someone  _ever_ tries to do so when I'm not around. You're allowed to be not okay, you're  _allowed_ to disagree with something and voice your opinion. You're  _allowed_ to argue with me, I won't mind. I won't pretend that I won't argue back, but I will  _never_  hurt you for it.”

 

John stroked his thumbs soothingly over the Dragon's prominent cheekbones, face softening from his fierce expression into something gentle and sad.

“And you can  _talk_  to me, about anything you like. Talk in my head, talk out loud, whatever. I might not know what to do or how to react, and I might bollocks everything up with what I decide to do in response, but I'll listen. And I promise I won't ever force you to leave.”

 

Sherlock's throat burned with the effort it took to stop the strange lump from conquering his composure. He was surprised that his mental projection did not waver, because it felt like he would never be steady on his feet again. He felt vulnerable, small before this Human, and so very open. Like one touch would shatter him if he did not stop it. With one blow, the Dragon knew that John Watson could very well destroy him.

 

_**How can I trust you? How can I trust your word? How can you expect me to?** _

 

John looked at him for a long time, trying to find the right words to say. He measured Sherlock's pulse under his fingers, the quivering in his naked form. He felt the uncertainty there, the need to rely on someone but the fear that came in doing so. He saw the mistrust.

 

In his mind he saw Molly, sobbing and clinging to Mike. He saw the girl with the flier, clutching her middle as blood pooled onto the pavement in crimson waves. He saw the kennels, the darkness of them and heard the soft whines and cries that came from behind bars.

When he spoke, his voice was solid, as unbreakable as steel. Sherlock felt as if it was shielding him, stronger than any wings could and any scaled armor.

 

“I'll prove it to you. One day at a time. Again and again until you  _can_ believe it. I'll prove it with actions, not just words.”

John's gaze did not waver. Neither did his hands as they drew from Sherlock's face to rest on his shoulders gently. The Dragon realised with some surprise that the shaking that blurred everything was coming from him.

Except it wasn't the same, panicked quivering of fear when he had contemplated being alone or being sent back to the kennels.

 

Instead it was a different kind of shiver, one that left the Dragon feeling warm and coiled tightly like a spring, wanting suddenly to take to the air and fly and never touch the ground again and taste the clouds as they form in the early morning air. The kind of hum one got from having their wings touched by the kiss of sunrise as you coasted far above the rest of the world.

 

 

 

 

****

Some of Sherlock's strangely affectionate mood had worn off by the time John got the tea-tree oil ready. The soldier had known to give the Dragon some time by himself to recover slightly from the stress of earlier. While politely asking Sherlock to clean up after himself, John had soaked a cloth with the pungent-smelling liquid. When he came back to the living room, the Dragon was back to relative normal, save for one small detail.

 

He had chosen to remain in his Human form.

Sherlock's skinny body sat patiently cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor, seemingly at ease with both his nudity and with John at the moment as he looked about the flat with restless curiosity. Those cool, colourful eyes seemed to reflect the shades of his moods as much as his scales in a way, shifting from cloudy grey to curious turquoise upon John's return. The Dragon inhaled deeply, nose crinkling in distaste as he caught a whiff of the strong oil-soaked rag. John couldn't suppress the chuckle that left his throat as like a petulant toddler, the Dragon scooted away from him and crossed his arms over his bare chest.

 

“Come on now, it must hurt at least a little bit. I promise after this you can have some of the sweets Mrs. Hudson left in the oven.”

Sherlock huffed, eyes narrowing at being treated like a Hatchling even as his brow twitched with interest. John was rapidly discovering that though his Dragon liked to hide it, he had a massive sweet-tooth. The soldier wrapped the cloth around his hand a few times until it made a sort of glove, coming forward until he could kneel in front of Sherlock. The Dragon's voice rumbled in his head, irritable but at least willing enough to communicate.

 

_**Looks Cold. Smells foul.** _

 

John smiled crookedly.

“But you want to eventually get to fly again, don't you?”

 

He could feel the silent agreement with his statement, despite its reluctance. Sherlock sighed, hands falling into his lap before he turned around agreeably, exposing his back for access. The Dragon's voice was flat but submissive.

 

_**Very well. If this is the only way to get you to leave me be. You may help.** _

 

“Someone's got an attitude don't they?” John murmured, but got to work quickly. Once again faced with the sluggishly bleeding infection, the soldier found himself thinking that he had gotten to it just in time. It looked slightly red and inflamed, and John figured a bath would be in order again tonight before the two of them went to bed. Trying to be gentle and mind the various cuts and scars over the creature's spine, he pressed the cloth against the wound. The reaction was immediate.

 

A roar let loose from Sherlock, and the Dragon reared away from John's hand, curling closer into himself and cutting off the snarl as he bit his lip hard enough for him to taste blood. The soldier was immediately there, apologising profusely, stroking Sherlock's back. The wound throbbed with Sherlock's heartbeat, washing the creature's vision with red for a second before he could control himself. It felt like he had been prodded with the hot end of a curling iron.

 

However, after a second, the sharp pain became a dull throb, and finally a slow tingling sensation of relief. Sherlock felt with some surprise muscles he had long forgotten about begin to loosen, creating relief along his back as the oil did its job and killed off the bacteria in the wound. Heaving a small sigh of relief, the Dragon relaxed, eyelids fluttering closed as he rolled his shoulder experimentally.

After a second, he spoke, cutting into John's panicked thoughts.

 

_**Again. I'm okay now. Again.** _

 

“You sure?” The soldier asked, reaching out again when Sherlock nodded. The sting still hurt, but it faded more quickly than before. Soon Sherlock was purring slightly, the sharp smell doing a number on his senses but the sensation of relief heady and wonderful. Encouraged, John began to rub the treatment in more deeply, fingers splaying as the Dragon continued to make sounds that should sound small and kittenish and instead came out as powerful and overjoyed. John marvelled silently the range of noises Sherlock could make, the smallest inflection of a growl completely changing the mood of the noise.

 

Before long, Sherlock's head was all but leaning against John's chest, the creature's muscles apparently having gone to jelly in an instant. Like a giant cat, Sherlock seemed to have tendency to be tactile while affectionate and relaxed and aloof and manic at any other time. John's observations were shown to be correct when he finally murmured

“That should be good. I'll have to do it again tomorrow morning, but overall your back looks like it'll heal up nicely. I got a few other things for you, if you'd like to see them.”

 

Like an overly-excited child desperately trying to remain cool, Sherlock nodded with forced nonchalance.

_**That would be agreeable.** _

 

John helped the Dragon to his feet before standing as well to go hunting for the bag of clothes. He brought the plastic bag over to the creature with a small smile, one that grew progressively wider when Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief.

 

_**You bought.... those for me?** _

 

“Well, can't have you getting arrested for public indecency. Wasn't sure what you'd like, so I just bought what I thought would work for you.... guessed at your sizes, so things might be too big or too small.... Used the military budget so it wasn't like it cost me anything......Here.” John thrust the bag towards him, suddenly rather embarrassed for no real reason. After a moment, Sherlock reached to rifle through its contents, limbs quivering with suppressed interest.

 

It wasn't long before John realised the shy, tentative smile on the creature's face was the source of the swelling happiness in his own chest. Sherlock was rather like a small child for a few minutes, trying on various types of clothing and tossing aside those that didn't fit or he didn't like. Things that he did like or did fit him he'd run his cheek against, feeling the texture in disbelief before folding it gently and placing it by his feet. Soon, the Dragon had acquired quite a pile, and John soon saw that Sherlock had good taste. The soldier found himself staring at an entirely different figure than he was used to seeing.

 

Sherlock had chosen dark colours, things that reflected against his pale skin and made it seem downright translucent. A pair of dark black trousers, tucking in a shirt that was a deep plum purple, the colour of an African Violet. Over that ensemble, he had chosen a charcoal belstaff coat that trailed to his knees, and a deep blue scarf that made his eyes seem to glow.

 

Like John had been hoping, it covered the Dragon's collar perfectly.

Sherlock looked at him uncertainly, shuffling shyly from foot to foot as he was suddenly overcome with a bout of self-consciousness. Trying not to let it show, the Dragon spoke rather gruffly in John's mind.

 

_**It's been a while since I've interacted with Humans, but I did try to pick something that wouldn't make me stand out too much.... Is it to your satisfaction?** _

 

John was busily trying to figure out a way to close his mouth so he could recover enough to respond. When he finally did, his breath came out in a rush.

“With a hair-cut Sherlock, I can honestly say that  _no one_ will be able to find a complaint.”

 

Sherlock beamed proudly, hands fingering the scarf about his throat like it was the most precious thing he had ever received.

 


	12. Rune Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, next chapter here we go! :3
> 
> I'm really glad you all are enjoying! One more chapter then the boys are off to battle. :)
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely kudos and comments!!! 
> 
> this is kind of how I picture Sherlock's Rune Mark to be (when complete of course) Though John only has a little bit of it now. :P
> 
> http://designspiration.net/image/114238128207/

 

 

  **Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

_**Rune Marks (Magic):** A Rune Mark is a special kind of spell that any fully-grown Dragon can employ. Not unlike a tracking device, it is often used between mother and Hatchling in order to make it easier for the Dragon to keep their young safe. It allows the Dragon to 'sense' where the person who possesses the Rune Mark is, the strength of the Mark growing as the Bond between the two subjects increases. Each Dragon's Rune Mark is unique, and can only be tracked by the Dragon who first cast the Spell (see page 66C for other kinds of Magic that is personalized). Though it may be weak at first, the Rune Mark's size and power will increase the more the two subjects come to rely on each other. Dragons will occasionally put a Rune on a trusted Human of choice, although the occurrence is relatively uncommon. It is generally seen as a sign of implicit trust, as the person who bears the Rune will effectively be connected to the Dragon so long as the Rune is in place. Whatever pain the subject may feel will also be transferred to the Dragon who cast the spell, as well as other extreme emotions, such as high anxiety or sadness. The stronger the Bond, the more emotions will leak through the link between the two. _

 

 

Over the span of a few weeks, A strange and tentative trust formed between Man and Dragon. It wasn't perfect -far from it- but it was far more than either John or Sherlock had before, and the two quietly welcomed it into their lives with as little chafing as was possible.

 

The first step towards this was slowly bringing Sherlock to getting used to sleeping in _**221 B.**_ John soon discovered as the Dragon rapidly recovered his health that the creature had a seemingly boundless amount of energy, and would often spend long hours into the night merely pacing or picking his way deftly through John's collection of paperbacks. Though Sherlock at first couldn't read very much English, it soon became evident that the Dragon was merely ignorant, as opposed to stupid.

 

Though the Dragon had at first been hesitant to move from the room downstairs (after all he had claimed it as “His” and it would not do for just anyone to come and take his space away) John had offered him the room on the main floor, the promise of a warm bed (all for _himself_ , now that was a treat Sherlock couldn't refuse) and a nice window view. All of this let the Dragon quickly get over his reservations. He soon tentatively began making the room his own, although John forbid the whole Marking ritual, much to the Dragon's sulking chagrin.

 

Instead, Sherlock made do by filling the small area with things that he could claim as his own. He liked to have his clothes scattered about the floor, his own scent permeating the room with them, mingled with a few of John's jumpers when he was in a good mood. When he wasn't those jumpers were often tossed down the hall angrily. Sherlock began writing pages upon pages in his own language, formulas and Spells tacked to the walls for later analysis. Strangely enough, John noticed the Dragon was spartan-like in the organisation of his sock-index.

 

Sherlock also proved to be incredibly clever, as well as surprisingly devious.

 

Once given the opportunity, Sherlock's brain absorbed information like a highly effective sponge. His mind connected the dots together faster than anyone John had ever seen, man or beast included. What's more, the Dragon seemed to effortlessly be able to make predictions based on knowledge previously learned. John woke in the morning a few days after he had given Sherlock the manual guide to most of the electronics in the house to find that new and different CD's played in the speaker's as he got up, Sherlock having rooted through his small collection and selected a fair few he deemed acceptable. Also, he soon learned that though the Dragon's English vocabulary was evidently increasing in size, (judging from the slow and gradual shift from picture books to chapter books to texts) Sherlock refused to speak to John in any way other than telepathically.

 

In fact, John quickly learned to take it as a warning sign that something was off if Sherlock made a sound at all.

 

He was at times, deathly quiet. He slunk about John with a skittish sort of grace, just at the corner of the soldier's eyes. Incredibly agile and flexible, John sometimes found the Dragon went ridiculous lengths to avoid being in his direct line of sight, a common sulking place being atop the refrigerator, where the Dragon's impossibly long tail would curl and uncurl about the cool handle.

 

The only time the soldier heard Sherlock be vocal other than for the occasional snarl or huff of grudging interest, John had been woken to a loud crashing of a thousand pieces of glass falling all over the floor. Within moments he was on his feet, cinching the belt to his robe as he ran down the stairs to find a sight that was at once shocking as it was strange.

 

Sherlock stood in the centre of the living room shaking, his eyes wild and wide as he took in the shattered vase he had accidentally tipped over with his tail. The scattered pieces lay about his bare feet haphazardly, shards powdered with the sheer force of the appendage's assault. John could tell the vase had literally been whipped towards the wall, the trajectory of the shards all in one general direction. However he didn't have much time to absorb all this as a low, keening noise that could be felt through the floorboards rumbled from Sherlock's throat.

 

In the next instant, the Dragon had curled himself protectively away from John, wings flared and defensive green-gold, a blazing banner to mask the fear in the creature's eyes. John could see some of the Human form that Sherlock had kept to lately fade as scales over took more of his skin, and a low, threatening growl that didn't sound nearly as sure as it should be emerged from his peeled lips. John was surprised when a rippling, melodic language came from the creature's lips, repeating itself over and over again until something clicked, and Sherlock switched to English for the first time. Though his accent was as broken as a badly-strung guitar, John could understand him.

He'd have understood the tone of someone pleading for mercy, even if he was half-mad and blind.

 

“S-sorry. Sorry. Not. Fault. Accident. Not-” A small, clicking sound of exasperation came from Sherlock's lips as he couldn't find the right words quick enough, his panic seeming to have cut off the easy mental communication they had kept up now for a few days. Seeming to grow frustrated with John's lack of action and his own incompetence, the Dragon abruptly resorted to the only tactic that had always worked before, kneeling in the pile of glass and cowering.

 

John gasped as the creature folded at the knees, wincing as he could see shards digging into Sherlock's skin, creating vivid paths of blood. His first instinct was to wrench the Dragon to his feet, demand _what in the seven hells was wrong with him_ and treat the cuts. However when John stepped forward, (cautiously trying to avoid getting glass pieces on the soles of his feet) the creature shuddered bodily and seemed to shrink away. He paused, carefully reconsidering his knee-jerk reaction and instead crouching delicately on the floor, keeping a safe distance away from where the Dragon knelt, hands clasped behind his back. John noted that Sherlock's posture was a vulnerable position, not one someone who felt threatened would normally take. He knelt with his hands clutching each other behind his waist, dark curls bowed as if expecting blows to befall him at any moment. Though his wings were out they were flared instead of protective, expecting pain but not willing to fight back. The realisation that this was a posture that had been trained into Sherlock, and not a natural response (even if that thought was equally disturbing) made John grit his teeth as anger spiked through his system.

 

He kept his hands gentle and feather-light as they reached out for the Dragon, pausing an inch from those dark curls before they carefully plucked a piece of glass from their snarls. John watched as Sherlock hardly dared to breathe, the keening noise stuttering slightly as he felt no onslaught of pain. Glancing in slight confusion up at his Master through his lashes, he saw how John rather calmly took to pushing the blunter pieces of glass into a pile, moving them so he could get closer to the Dragon. Sherlock found he had unconsciously backed himself into a wall and whined, but John didn't crowd him. Instead, he kept carefully just outside of Sherlock's bubble, rising to clear away glass and even leaving for a moment to grab shoes and a broom. All the while the Dragon remained immobile, frozen between confusion and the instinctive thrum in his gut that insisted he fear.

 

His memories and past experiences told him to try and remedy the situation as much as possible by being docile and obedient, and yet every muscle in him also screamed to attack. Caught between the two, Sherlock did not see John clearly when he looked at him, instead, he saw a very different face. One that he'd sooner rather forget. He expected rough fingers to tug his head forward, searching hands to pull off the clothes so generously given to him, and growling commands hissed in his ear.

 

Instead, true to John's earlier promise, he was carefully approached, asked for consent before he was even touched, and then only to be moved, nothing more. John's hands were calloused but steady, Sherlock noticed, and they were warm where they lingered for a moment on his skin. They did not drift anywhere, did not search save for injury or damage. The soldier took stock of Sherlock's knees after he had managed to coax the borderline catatonic Dragon over to the chair, wincing at a particularly deep gash across his shin.

 

“That might need more than a band-aid.”

He muttered to himself, and was surprised when the Dragon responded with a small and quiet

 

“Sorry.” Under his breath. His voice was cracked and raspy, as if Sherlock hadn't spoken in a very long time. John was privately impressed with the creature's language skills, but saddened by the fact that begging was the first time the Dragon had bothered to speak to him. Crouching in front of Sherlock and grabbing his medical kit, he rolled up the trouser leg of the Dragon's clothes, dabbing at the smaller cuts with hydrogen peroxide. Sherlock hissed at the sting slightly, but offered no other complaint.

 

John's voice was calm and steady.

“It's okay. I just want to know what spooked you. I don't mind, it was an accident and I saw that. You're not in trouble.” The soldier felt rather than saw some of the tension leave the Dragon's spine at his reassurances. Though at first Sherlock was reluctant to reveal what had frightened him, he soon realised that John was not about to let him escape. Though his gaze kept flicking towards his new room, the soldier carefully blocked his exit, being at once solid and yet non-threatening. It was obvious that John wasn't about to let Sherlock slink away, and twitching slightly, the Dragon looked at his knees where white plasters now greeted him. His voice was small. He hated himself for being so afraid.

 

_**I figured it out.** _

 

“Figured what out?” John's brow furrowed, but he paused to listen and heard the radio, still playing through the flat. Not music, but words drifted from its speakers, an old mystery audio tape. Some kind of slash thriller. A woman's very fake screams radiated from it, followed by cheesily eerie music. Realisation hit John, and he broke into a small smile as he looked to Sherlock and grinned.

 

“You mean.... You guessed the murderer?”

 

The Dragon nodded emphatically, some of the worry leaving his eyes as he straightened. Those dark curls bobbed slightly as pale fingers moved to emphasize Sherlock's deductions that came to John's thoughts like a babbling brook unleashed. With his excitement his tail began to swish, twitching at the tip and _wagging_ with his interest. John realised that must have been why the vase had gotten knocked over. He could _feel_ the deadly force in that movement even from where he sat.

 

_**It's obvious, really. It's the husband, not the servant. They explain early on that each of the servant's are mute, their tongues having been cut out, and it is shown by the way the Dragon speaks only to the detective when no one else is about because he's a thrall. Though the servant has motive given the fact that the wife bought him from slavery and tore him from his mother as a Hatchling, he lacks innovation. He's uneducated, and would not be able to leave notes with elaborate riddles on them if he can barely spell. Really. As well the husband's motivation for murder is far more plausible, given the fact that the woman has been sleeping with his business associate now for nearly a year, and the husband only just found out the night before the murder. You can tell by the voice acting too, the actors are stilted, and they gave the husband a horribly fake accent that's stereotypically evil-sounding. Really, textbook.** _

 

Then Sherlock fell silent, a suspicious expression crossing his features as he didn't see John's face turn dark or glowering. Instead, all he felt was slight disbelief and awe radiate from the soldier, and in a cautious tone the Dragon asked

 

_**Is.... Am I right?** _

 

John laughed, tossing his head back and sitting on the floor. Sherlock looked at him like he was half-mad, wing-tips tingeing a confused, mottled shade of calico before the soldier got the breath to reply.

 

“You... you're _amazing,_ do you know that? The tape's only on the _second_ chapter and you've already got it all figured out...”

 

The Dragon's chest momentarily swelled with shy pride, scales simmering to a slightly smug dark blue before turning grey with worry.

_**I've always.... observed things. It's something I'm good at.... But most people don't usually think it's all that amazing.... It's not what they usually say. I got overly excited, as you can see....** _

 

Then the Dragon's head ducked down, hands curling in his lap, his wings curving as if to hide him from some unseen anger. The rhythmic thumping of his tail died away, the appendage curling itself about one leg protectively. John's grin faded, noticing how small and fragile the Dragon looked without the usual spark of defiance in his cool eyes. Moving slowly, John seated himself on the other side of the couch, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he gently asked

 

“What do they usually say?”

 

Sherlock's thoughts were low, tinged with black humour. He bared his teeth slightly in distaste as he murmured to the knuckles of his hands. Still, John felt he picked the least volatile of the insults he had been handed over his life.

 

_**Piss off.** _

 

Though it was delivered as a joke, neither man nor beast really found themselves laughing.

Instead, John looked hard at Sherlock, blue eyes flicking over the skinny form that was still too thin even after all the food he had been eating lately, glossing over the scars that he could still see in the holes he had made for the Dragon in the back of his shirt. He did not see weakness. Rather, he saw a fierce resilience. Something unshakable and aloof from the rest of the world, happening to lower itself right before his eyes. In that moment, he saw some of the usual cold mask slip from the Dragon's features, mellow into something more malleable and soft. Though it was still an icy expression that Sherlock returned his gaze with, it lacked the sharpened edge it held before. Now it asked for comfort, although grudgingly, and John found himself wanting to give it. He wanted to reach out, pull the Dragon out of his own memories, out of his own mind and warm that dead expression off of his face. The broken look of hopelessness.

 

Because Sherlock could not afford to be hopeless, not when they were already preparing to go into a battle. If he remained this way, there was little doubt in John's mind that the Dragon would die in that desert. He'd let himself get shot, or kidnapped, or burned at a stake, and that was unacceptable.

 

To John, Sherlock's life was _necessary._ He wasn't exactly sure when it became so, but it was. Vehemently so. Somehow, the scaly git had managed to worm his way past John's usual armor. The protection he had developed over the years, the one that kept him from helping Harry again and again when she begged him to save her from her own mistakes, the one that had made him stand firm and refuse to go to his Father's funeral. Somehow, the Dragon had managed to waltz through every fence, curling himself next to the warmth in John's chest. He wasn't even totally sure he could _trust_ Sherlock to protect him in a battlefield, because he couldn't even guarantee the Dragon would be willing to protect _himself._

 

And in a war where they were to be facing rebels that could turn into two-tonne scaled beasts of horror, that should be something that worried John. A lot.

And yet, he couldn't help but glow over the fact that somehow, he had managed to find a place in a creature's heart that owed him nothing. That Sherlock could have chosen to just eat him, and John would never stop being thankful that he had decided against it.

 

 

And evidently, Sherlock wasn't even aware.

 

John promised himself then that he'd make Sherlock aware of it, if only by pulling the Dragon's lanky form so that his head rested on the soldier's shoulder. Sherlock's eyes were cat-like and wide as they peered up at John questioningly, but he didn't give justification for his action of comfort. Soon, Sherlock stopped searching for one. The Dragon felt his eyes slide closed as those capable, strong hands delicately ran through his curls, scratching just at the base of his horns in such a way that was positively sinful and wonderful at the same time. Finally satisfied that he wasn't in trouble, Sherlock allowed himself to relax into the touch, melting bonelessly towards the comfort like a moth pulled to a flame. Little sparks flashed behind his eyes, electrical pinpoints as John's hands worked his dark hair into some semblance of order, and if the soldier noticed how Sherlock's tail automatically curled possessively about his waist, he chose not to say anything.

 

Sherlock's wings stretched to engulf the both of them, shielding John in an ever-changing force field that melted from blue to green to darkest violet. It was lovely and strange, and he longed to reach out and touch.

He didn't dare.

Not yet.

Not when Sherlock seemed so fragile and small, not unlike a monster but more like a very young child, alone and afraid.

 

 

The two of them spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in that way, ignoring the pile of glass. They might have spent the evening as well, if John hadn't insisted on getting some food into the Dragon. Before the soldier could stand, Sherlock grabbed his wrist possessively, looking at him with deep, shifting eyes. A tingling rushed over the soldier's spine, bubbling up his veins and through the crook of his elbow to spread to the rest of his body. It was not unlike being exposed to a ray of sunlight, the sensation slowly warming until it nearly burned to the touch. He gasped, and in the moment he did Sherlock uttered something in Dragon-Tongue, the words eerie and chanting and quick. Like a butterfly's breath.

_"Etcha. Protcheva. Novest itch Xiao seich."_

_  
_In his head, the soldier heard the translation.

_**Guard. Keep safe. No harm to come to what is mine.** _

 

When John finally managed to pull his wrist away, there was a mark, a twisting Rune overlapping delicately about his skin. It circled about his arm, glowing a faint blue before dimming to black. Small, but intricately designed. It looked incomplete, but promised to be beautiful when whole. Hexagonal in nature, two or three patterns traced up his arm. Plain black, one with swirling designs that looped over each other, another as delicate as a snowflake. When he looked at Sherlock questioningly, the Dragon's eyes glowed with the same light. Blinking, the Dragon's only explanation left mysteries surrounding John's thoughts.

 

_**I'll prove you can trust me the only way I know how.... Through actions instead of words.** _

 

****

At the beginning of the last week, Dodge phoned John to let him know that he had a day to get Sherlock used to the idea of her bringing Cerioth over for the equivalent of a 'play-date'.

 

“Standard procedure.” She had sighed over the phone, the tone of her voice tired and edged slightly.

“They want to make sure he won't go all kamikaze on the first Dragon he sees. After all he's a Red-Card, and you guys will have to work as a team with other pairs on the field.”

 

In retrospect, John understood the logic. Still, he felt a surge of annoyance and exasperation at the government, or specifically whoever had come up with the outlines to join the military.

 

The fact was, he was fairly certain this would not go over well.

It worried him.

 

Because Sherlock was many things, brilliant, aloof and yet strangely affectionate at times, calculating, thoughtful, but above all, Sherlock was _possessive_ of things he viewed as _his._

 

Like a true Dragon, it had been shown to John over time that his Draconian flatmate wasn't one to share.

 

Sherlock was inherently protective, to the point where John found the strangest of things squirreled away in supposedly 'safer' locations. The Dragon's blue scarf was often tucked under Sherlock's pillow at night, along with a midnight snack (as the Dragon had odd eating habits and frequently decided an apple would be nice at one in the morning) and his notebooks full of scrawl. John's favourite tea mug went missing from the dishwasher, only for the soldier to find it later hidden inside the skull. A collection of mold cultures Sherlock made himself by spoiling the milk were lovingly hidden in the bathtub for John to find later on, and every single book in the house was treated like it was heavenly, stacked in Sherlock's bed to resemble a nest of literature.

 

Inviting someone into the flat could prove dangerous, given the fact that Sherlock did not trust anyone as of yet besides John and Mrs. Hudson. At one point the young Dragon from next door had brought their post, the postman having put it into the wrong box, and John had found himself tackled to the ground by a snarling Dragon of the North, protected by Sherlock's impenetrable scaly stomach as Sherlock all but threatened to murder the poor servant where he stood. The Dragon, skittish and small, had taken off running back to their Master, tail tucked between their legs.

 

Sherlock had been quite proud of himself for scaring away the intruder, until John had scolded it for him later.

Then, he had only been mildly repentant.

 

Sighing to himself, John squared his shoulders.

A day.

He had a day to get Sherlock to accept it.

 

It wouldn't be so hard, right?

 

Somehow, as he looked at the mess his flat had become in only a few weeks, the soldier couldn't bring himself to be so sure.


	13. We Only Do What We Must

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely beta of this chapter neverwhere for helping me out! :3 
> 
> ALSO I reached over a hundred comments on the last chapter when my own replies were added. Plus all the kudos. Guys, you have really honoured me. And made me squeal like a little kid more than once. Thank you.

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Chinese Dragons (Species):** _Chinese Dragons are the second-oldest of the Dragon species, and most likely appeared sometime around the late Ming Dynasty era. Their ancestors originate from all over Asia, although China to this day holds the largest population of the species (hence the name). The Chinese Dragons differentiate from their cousins the Northern and English Dragons in their small, compact forms. In Human form, it is common for a male to only be around five foot seven to barely touching six feet. The females will on average be anywhere from four eleven to five foot five. However their Draconic forms are extremely long and slender. Bearing a snake-like figure, the Chinese Dragon was once largely worshipped by humans in medieval ages, seen as a sign of good luck. There are still many pieces of ancient art today in Asia that depict them. They are the most common type of Dragon, and are a species designed for speed, swimming, and warm weather. (See page 78 part G for details on weather and Dragons.) The Chinese Dragons are well known for their remarkable capabilities of seeing the truth in matters, their magic tending to be rooted in deep honesty and clarity of the mind. Beware though: Chinese Dragons, although small and relatively more fragile than their other cousins, can boil water they collect in a separate pouch inside their bodies and spit it upon their enemies. The temperature of this water can easily exceed 150 degrees Celsius._

 

  
Cerioth was a Chinese Dragon, and as a result he was at once both small in stature and graceful, delicate in appearance. Yet as John welcomed the servant at his front door, who bowed low once in greeting, he got the distinct impression that if given permission the creature would have no qualms about snapping his neck. He was not tall, not even by John's standards, but he held himself with a quiet elegance, a stillness that contrasted sharply with Lieutenant Dodge's entrance.

 

Dodge was all hard edges and solid confidence, a strength that was always on display. Her shoulders remained ramrod straight, and she held herself in such a way to appear taller than she was. She nodded sharply at John by way of greeting, short mahogany hair dipping as she was ushered into the flat. Her boots thunked solidly on the floor. What she saw was, admittedly, better than she had been expecting.

 

The place was tidy, cleared of any obvious debris and organised, with objects stacked together on the tables and shelves. Not a book was out of place but the overall effect was not so clean as to be staged. (What she didn't know was that John stayed up late into the night, cleaning desperately). Late morning sunlight streamed lazily through the window, making the polished wood floor gleam a rich red with a warm tone.

 

Sherlock by design, was nowhere in sight.

 

John had spent the entirety of yesterday trying to explain to the Dragon what was expected of him at this “meeting” of sorts. Or rather, he had attempted to explain even as Sherlock appeared hell-bent on deliberately ignoring his heed for caution. His thoughts had been sharp and acidic as he sat sprawled on the sofa, hands folded under his chin in a strangely mimicry of prayer as his thoughts nearly whip-lashed out at John.

 

_**I will not be treated as if I am a show horse. I am a Dragon, and although I've been captured I still have some pride.** _

 

It was clear that Sherlock was becoming more comfortable speaking his mind. At least, within the silent confines of John's thoughts. Aloud Sherlock still demanded nothing, and as he regained his strength his eating and sleeping habits dwindled considerably. It concerned John somewhat, especially since the one time John caught Sherlock sleeping of his own volition (or exhaustion) he witnessed the Dragon was prone to nightmares. The creature's wings had flashed mottled shades of grey and sickly green, small whimpers coming from his lips as he writhed in his bed and thrashed in the sheets. John didn't dare wake him lest he was mistaken for an enemy, but distinctly heard broken pleading in Dragon-Tongue, and often Sherlock's body contorted as if he were being struck. Misty fog streamed from Sherlock's parted lips and flared nostrils, cooling the room to a freezer, yet John hadn't been able to tear himself away, even for a moment to fetch a warmer jumper.

 

In the morning, Sherlock either didn't remember or didn't care to bring it up. Certainly, he appeared neither weak nor vulnerable in declaring his thoughts on meeting with Dodge.

 

_**They will try to turn you against me. I will not have it! You are the least boring Master I've had and I will not be sold off like a common street cow.** _

 

John didn't bother to hide his eye roll, despite the fact he inwardly reveled and despaired that Sherlock was growing bolder. He seated himself on the couch, pushing the Dragon to make room for him even as he checked over Sherlock's wings by demanding he unbutton his shirt. There was barely any sign of the infection; it was healing well, a shining scar the only indication there had been something wrong in the first place. The scar was vivid on Sherlock's alabaster skin, but then John would prefer to see marks that were the result of healing instead of punishment. Humming to himself in satisfaction, the young doctor replied snappily:

 

“You'll behave yourself and like it or we'll both be castrated. Dodge isn't someone to fuck around with, she means business. I'm not going to abandon you, so you're stuck with me and you'll have to tough it out. If she thinks for even a second that I'm not serious about looking after you and fighting in the war she'll have me sent home and you'll be sent...”

John cut off then, throat suddenly tight as he refused to think further. As if sensing the direction his thoughts had taken, the Dragon quietly replied

 

_**Foolish... As yet you're the only Human I've met who's bothered to care...You'll have to order me if you want me to leave...** _

 

 And in a rare gesture of faith, Sherlock leaned his head against John's shoulder, nuzzling his curled head against the man's neck and inhaling his scent greedily.

Softening, the army doctor let him rest there for the afternoon even as he read more of the mysterious book he had been gifted. Privately, he sent a thought of his own towards the scaly creature.

 

_I'll never order you unless I absolutely can't help it... Not if I can ask you instead..._

 

Sherlock didn't reply, but simply nestled closer, prehensile tail twisting protectively around the Rune Mark that had just barely begun to inch up John's arm.

 

****

 

Though John truly believed after that point that Sherlock would try his best, he still asked the Dragon to stay in his room until called. The Dragon had grumbled, but didn't put up much of a fight. With the click of the lock sliding home, John hastily made a pot of tea, setting it in the living room so that it could be accessed easily as a way to stall. Much of this would be bluffing, and so the young soldier made sure to keep as many options open as possible. When Dodge and Cerioth had arrived in what seemed at once both an eternity and an instant after, he ushered them inside and offered them something to drink. Both being painstakingly British and neither wanting to seem impolite, John and Dodge seated themselves across from one another, not saying much as they nursed their cups and stared at into the other's eyes unflinchingly. A silence stretched between them as Cerioth took the customary place of a Dragon, kneeling on the floor by Dodge's side. John itched to haul the small creature to his feet. Instead his fingers tightened impotently about the handle of his mug. Tentative of his welcome, he reached out with his mental Thrall to address the slave.

 

_Hello. Nice to see you again._

 

Cerioth's dark eyes widened as he shot a look up from under his lashes, a slightly perplexed and mollified expression on his face before his gaze slid back to the floor. After a moment, John felt the somewhat delicate brush of a stranger's voice on the edge of his mind.

 

_**It is generally considered rude, Sir, to speak to the help before addressing their Master. Be glad that my Mistress is no Thrall.** _

 

_Does she hurt you? If you're impolite?_

 

_**She is not excessive in her punishments. Mistress only does what she must.** _

 

Cerioth's voice came across as clinical. Detached and curt. John got the distinct feeling he was standing in front a mirror with no reflection. A sheet of glass that was steel grey and fogged. Revealing nothing.

 

_What must she do? Is she expected to hurt you?_

 

John asked before he could help himself, yet got no answer. The Dragon looked pointedly towards Dodge, silently encouraging John to use his manners instead of replying. After a moment, the soldier gave up.

 

Aloud, he spoke.

“You'll have to forgive Sherlock, he's a bit of a late sleeper. I didn't want to wake him, since he's still healing. He's been eating more, think he might actually gain some muscle if he continues getting regular meals into him.”

 

“Name's Sherlock? Interesting, in English that's fair-haired, isn't it? May have been the dirt, but I could've sworn his hair was as black as night.”

Dodge spoke in light, easy tones, although there was always an undercurrent of command about her. Years of being on duty had shed all meekness she once possessed; a woman who often held a gun in her hands didn't flinch when confronted with a chance to take control of a situation. Instead she leaned forward, eyes bright and strong. If it weren't for the professional way in which she addressed the issues, John might have thought she genuinely cared about Sherlock's welfare.

 

“He doesn't seem to have any mental problems? Anything besides the aggression and protective tendencies? Are his wings functional? Everything checking out like it should? He's not unnecessarily confrontational or weak in stamina?”

John found his reply was somewhat cool, despite the fact he didn't dislike his commanding officer. Something about her just rubbed him the wrong way.

 

“He's as sane as any man can be when confronted with a mandatory drafting. As for his wings, one was infected with a mild rash, but it's mostly cleared up now. He's been doing a lot better with his protective tendencies.” The last part was a bit of a white lie, or rather an exaggeration, but John let it slip past his lips without thinking. It was better this way, so long as everything went smoothly. John could continue to work with Sherlock on his aggression, and by the time they were called to duty they would be at that point. For now though, the Dragon was still slightly unstable. He couldn't let Dodge become aware of this. She'd haul his ass right down to headquarters and have them tranquillise Sherlock.

 

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Dodge nodded thoughtfully. She sipped her tea before folding her hands in her lap. She wore her army uniform, John noticed. Must have just been off on training somewhere then. Her voice was terse.

“I need you to be honest with me here John. As honest as you think you can be. Do you feel you can trust him? Your Dragon? Because if you can't, then you will find the training in Afghanistan to be extremely... challenging.”

 

She looked up at him, one eye half-hidden by her fringe, and John stared at his cup in contemplation. His blue irises focused in silent thought. Could he trust Sherlock?

The immediate answer came straight from his gut, an instinct more than fact. Want more than reason.

 

Yes, I trust him.

 

Yet his mind cautioned him, so that he responded more slowly as not to appear too hasty in his choice.

 

“I'd trust him with my life. He's the sort of creature that's very much all or nothing in nature, and it seems he's decided I'm lucky enough to be considered an ally. He'd protect me, and I'd protect him.”

He looked at his superior, the set of his mouth honest and unyielding. His shoulders were an unwavering line. Steady.

Dodge blinked at the force behind the young man's words. Then her gaze softened. She set down her cup with a gentle tap, looking up. Her features rearranged themselves back into blank stone as she looked hard at John.

Her voice was cutting.

 “But can you get him to trust others at this stage?”

And then John stared down at his hands and swallowed, because he could not answer that one honestly. The words caught up in his throat, knowing the Dragon's true nature. It felt like his chest was sticky on the inside with them, their cloying deceit seeping into his lungs like brackish fluid.

He hoped that Sherlock would never have to hear the hesitation in his answer.

 

Which was why it came as a surprise when Lieutenant Dodge stood abruptly, her gaze held somewhere above his head. John's heart leapt as she stepped past him, assessing a kneeling figure he hadn't noticed come down the stairs. Sherlock crouched in his best clothes on the floor, a simple suit with a white undershirt, completely Human and appearing harmless. A shadow in the hollow of the stairwell. His collar gleamed about his throat, scarf conspicuously absent, head bowed towards the floor in the perfect semblance of submission. John felt his blood freeze in silent panic even as he looked on at what appeared to be a bizarre twilight zone.

 

His superior officer's voice was high and slightly surprised, edged with faint suspicion as she came to stand over Sherlock and inspect him. John was suddenly vitally glad he'd managed to trim Sherlock's messy black curls into some pretence of order the other night. He tugged on his sleeve, further trying to hide the strange tattoo that stained his wrist. An absent gesture. He could not tear his gaze away from the Dragon's still form.

 

“Well this is a fair change.” Dodge commented wryly as she stood over the Dragon crouching before her, seemingly impressed by his stillness and good behaviour.

“I have to admit John, I had some doubts...”

 

John grit his teeth and braced himself for an explosion when Dodge promptly snapped her fingers, uttering a military-like command. Testing John's honesty.

 

“Up. Let's have a look at you.”

 

The soldier relaxed minutely when Sherlock complied without complaint, rising gracefully to his feet. Sherlock's eyes stayed trained on the floor the entire time. The model of compliance.

 

But on the floor, Cerioth tensed. His dark eyes narrowed into slits and the muscles in his arms flexed almost imperceptibly, and John soon saw why.

 

Sherlock's tail had appeared, swishing cat-like and lazy behind him as he rose to his feet. The back and forth pendulum of rhythm betrayed his nerves, hidden under a mask of cold steel. His blue eyes were carefully blank, stance relaxed, but the appendage behind him twisted and curled with defiance. It wound around one of Sherlock's legs like a serpent as the Dragon stood at attention, barely quivering as Dodge reached out to tilt his head clinically towards the light. It caught the colour of his eyes, chips of ice in shadow. They did not look at John once.

 

Her eyes were sharp as they swept over the line of his jaw.

“His nose's been broken before, but looks like he was fairly young. Shouldn't cause any kind of problems. Does his dental work need anything? There's a free program...”

 

It took John a moment to realise that Dodge was addressing him as opposed to Sherlock, his superior not caring to look the Dragon in the eye as she continued her inspection. He sucked in a deep breath and held it, counting to five before letting it go and responding. John had to remind himself that this was her job, and that Dodge didn't mean any offence in the way she so casually handled Sherlock. She may as well have been inspecting a sack of flour. Her hands were cold and impersonal as she felt along the Dragon's scapulae, resting along the intersection where flesh morphed into wing. Her expression remained indiscernible as she pressed through the silky material of his suit. After a moment or two, during which she picked at the slits that John had made for Sherlock in the back of his clothes, with a small smirk ordered crisply

“Wings. Out where I can see them.”

 

Like a coiled spring, Sherlock complied. Yet his irises constricted, and John saw how they turned to sharpened slits. He swallowed, shifting as if to somehow discourage Dodge from probing further, but a hand in front of him halted his progression. Cerioth's fingers were slender as they splayed outwards, still they held strength in them as the slave looked up at John, brows furrowed in warning. It was an extremely abrasive gesture for one normally so complacent, and John found himself disconcerted by the Dragon's voiceless worry.

 

A low, rumbling growl filled the flat, and John looked up to see Sherlock staring at the point of connection between John and the intruder to his home. The young soldier's eyes widened as Dodge froze at the sound, a quizzical expression on her face as she looked behind her, taking in what had lead to Sherlock's sudden vocalisation. Her voice was dry as she looked at John.

 

“Might have exaggerated a little bit about his progress, didn't you now soldier?”

 

John stayed where he was, back ramrod straight, even though every part of him wanted to pull Sherlock away, drag him up the stairs before he did something they'd both regret. He bore silent holes into the Dragon's skin with his eyes, radiating his displeasure at having not only been directly ignored but at how the lanky git was acting. Two parts pleading and two parts irritated. Although the soldier couldn't blame him; the more childish side of John wanted these strangers gone too.

 

“Sherlock can tell you he's a lot better than he was before. I mean, you saw how he was back -” He cut off, clenched his fists. John did not want to mention that bloody kennel again, and instead quickly changed topics.

“- He had a fever then. Wing Rot. It's mostly healed now, and he's civil if not friendly towards people he knows and trusts. It's just strangers, and it's not like he's done anything but defend his territory....”

 

As if to accentuate his point, Sherlock again fell silent, Cerioth's hand having moved away from John's personal space. The smaller Dragon still knelt on the floor, curled into a defensive posture. Truthfully the soldier was a bit relieved. There was something chilling in the elegant way in which the Chinese Dragon held himself, a sinuous grace. Like a dancer, only one that held concealed weapons in their costume of human flesh and bone. Dodge had her brows pinched in a disbelieving sort of way, hands on her hips as she assessed John from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head. It was clear she did not take his word as truth. Her gaze was the cutting expression of someone extremely fed up with excuses. Her tone turned from mildly commanding to barking.

 

“Watson. Did it ever occur to you that in only a short while both you and your Dragon will be sharing the same breath with literally hundreds of other men, women and Dragons?”

 

He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off before John could draw in enough air to respond. She was merciless.

“Though it's obvious you've gained his loyalty, the fact is that your Dragon must only have allegiance to The Crown. What happens if you bollocks something up and a captain rightfully hands you your arse, only to have his throat ripped out by two tonnes of scale and ice?”

 

John felt the tips of his ears turn pink from the tongue lashing, but he held his ground as fury rose in him, hot and metallic. He had endured insults before, and would likely continue suffering them. He accepted it was part of army life, and he was used to them from his childhood. It was just that they weren't actually directed at  _him_ that made him momentarily see red. He worked to keep his voice controlled as he ground out -

“I'd stop him before-”

 

“How?” Dodge interrupted smoothly, dark brow rising. Her face was stormy as she pointed to John's empty hands, their tension.

“Don't think I didn't notice. You don't have the remote to his collar anywhere, and yet he's kneeling like a kicked puppy. You don't seem to be the blackmailing type though, or one to resort to physical violence. You've been treating him like a pet haven't you? You managed to turn a weapon into a  _lap dog_ -”

 

Dodge might have continued, but was interupted by a ferocious snarl as both she and John were unexpectedly flung back, pinned defensively at opposite sides of the room by their respective Dragons. It was strange: one moment the soldier was standing upright, the next he was being tossed to the floor like a sandbag for target practice. John wheezed, breath knocked out as he looked above him. All he saw was the shadow of massive dark wings.

Sherlock's horns, tail and wings sprouted from his body, as he stood half-crouched in front of John like a vicious guard dog. Bestial sounds emanated deep within his chest, vibrating through the floorboards as his slitted eyes turned feral. His scales were a murderous black, mottled with electric-white rage. He was like a demon, a terrible guardian of a prize, and John came to the abrupt realisation that he was the damsel in distress.

 

Still, he didn't dare move.

 

Cerioth also transformed, although he was far calmer as he stood protectively in front of his mistress. It was the first time that John had seen a Chinese Dragon even half-transform, and he couldn't help but gape from underneath Sherlock's protective wingspan.

 

The smaller Dragon's figure had drastically changed. For one, his skin was no longer the golden tone it had once been. Now it was tinged a deep jade green in places, smooth scales running up his arms and legs and creating swirling, delicate designs on his cheeks and chin. More fragile than Sherlock's, but sleeker, like the belly of a snake. Like war-paint, it enhanced the darkness of his eyes as it curled in decorative whorls about his skin. His horns differed from Sherlock's the way that a deer's might from a bull's, daintier yet rapier-sharp, with the potential to be lethal if correctly used. They glinted wickedly under the lights of the living room. The Dragon did not have wings; rather, Cerioth floated as if suspended in mid-air, steam curling from his parted lips as he let loose a low warning growl towards Sherlock's hunched figure. The tea set lay broken on the floor, hot tea creating a molten divide, the moat that separated both parties. Dodge had her gun out, though thankfully with the safety still on, her figure tense and her gaze professional as she assessed the situation. Unlike John, who was upside down and crushed by Sherlock's tail, which curled around him possessively.

 

In the span of only a few heartbeats, John's living room had become a battle ground.

And John suddenly realised Dodge might be right, that his illusion of control over Sherlock was just that, an illusion.

For the Dragon's mouth opened, and from his lips a glacial fog drifted, filling the flat and making it descend into chilly tension.

 


	14. Tested

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is once again unedited, but will be made so once my beta makes their changes :3 Many thanks to neverwhere as always!!! :D
> 
> I admittedly may not be posting much for a little while, as I have Christmas exams.... as well, December for various reasons is a bit of a rough time for me, so the rate of posts might slow. ^.^'' Sorry for that.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Thanks again so much for all the kind comments and kudos!!!!

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**On Dragons and Manners (social interaction with other Dragons):** _As mentioned earlier within this text, the Dragon language can be extremely difficult to learn, particularly because of the honorifics used within their tongue. As the language itself dates back to the time when Dragons were divided and organised into many tribes with leaders and nobility, it is not uncommon for two strange Dragons to refer to one another as 'My Lord' or 'My Lady'. In fact, it is often seen as a deliberate insult if the Dragon refuses to call a stranger by their title. In the past, such insults would often be resolved via Dragon Duels (see page 435 section G for details) however modern culture has deemed the practice barbaric and the practice has thus been outlawed. Still, any Dragonologist should be aware of such issues when dealing with Dragons, as to be unaware of the social construct of any race's language is to be ignorant of their culture. In fact, today's Dragon slaves are in part gravely punished when with no intention to displease their Master or Mistress, they refer to another Dragon as 'My Lord'. This in itself is a slow murder of their language, and one day, this writer fears that the complicated and somewhat delicate language of the Dragon species may forcibly die off as time goes on..._

 

 

For a moment, no one dared to breathe. There was only the sound of steam hissing like the coils of a rattlesnake from Cerioth's teeth, and the misty clouds of Sherlock's breath creating an intense fog.

 

It wasn't supposed to have turned out this way.

 

Contrary to what the situation before them suggested, it had never been Sherlock's intention to allow something like this to happen.

 

In fact, as much as he had initially chafed at the idea of staying upstairs, he had seen sense in John's pleas. Though his more Draconic pride rumbled in disquiet at allowing John to face any potential threat of his own, especially within the lines of their own shared territory (for Sherlock had already begun to think of the flat as  _theirs_ and somewhat Mrs Hudson's, if only in name) he had known there would be no convincing the soldier. It had been obvious in the line of John's jaw, his firm and unmoving use of his body language. The Dragon had seen it the moment the man had sat him down on the couch, hands wringing themselves somewhat apprehensively even as they had allowed Sherlock to butt his head against them like a giant, possessive feline.

It had become an unspoken agreement between the two of them, Sherlock's tactile advances. Though the Dragon was deliberately obtuse and prickly towards any affection forced upon him, he could be possessive and highly affectionate, if John pretended to ignore him. John had allowed him to rest his head upon his knee, fingers carding through the Dragon's hair and untangling the snarls that always seemed to accompany them. His voice had been low, mixed with equal parts guilt and discomfort, and Sherlock found it was irritating, the hesitation the soldier used about him. Like he might break at being told to stay in his room.

 

Still, he had been sure to make his displeasure at such a decision by huffing, a bit of whispered magic at the right time turning John's shower ice cold. The yelp was infinitely satisfying to Sherlock, even as he curled into a sulking ball at the foot of his bed and tried his best to stop the jealous, possessive streak inside him from dragging John to some place safe.

He did not know Dodge, or the Dragon due to meet him. Until he could assess them thoroughly, they were enemies. Even after he could observe them, Sherlock doubted their place in his mental catalogue would change.

 

He was aware of their presence and instant before the bell to their flat chimed.

The heavy footfalls of unfamiliar people grated on Sherlock's sensitive hearing, stirring the discomfort already firmly lodged in his chest like a great, swollen peach. The Dragon buried his head in the softness of the pillows John had bestowed upon him, gritting his teeth and counting roughly in his head every single scale on his body. It was second nature to transform, to shed his human skin and do so, and the bed creaked with added weight, the mattress becoming less of a bed, and more of a cushion. The colour of the creature's scales shifted uneasily, a mottled and stormy grey cast over blue. It was the shade of a distant hurricane. Downstairs, the Dragon could make out the sound of tea cups clinking, hot liquid being poured. All the marks of what humans deemed civilized and mannered interaction.

 

Dull.

 

Unwillingly, Sherlock's mind whispered to him. Told him stories of his own experiences, where his knees bruised from supporting his weight on the floor for too long, where rough hands pulled at his chin and loud voices barked orders, demanding he behave and serve boiling hot kettles without a word.

He ignored the familiar twisting sensation in his gut, instead opting to eavesdrop on the speaking below.

 

Sherlock picked out Dodge's more feminine voice instantly.

 

“ _He doesn't seem to have any mental problems? Anything besides the aggression and protective tendencies? Are his wings functional? Everything checking out like it should? He's not unnecessarily confrontational or weak in stamina?”_

 

The Dragon smiled slightly at John's slight bluffing, even as the seriousness of the situation washed over Sherlock like a wave. This was happening. He was to become metaphorical cannon-fodder for the War effort, and he would soon be expected to treat John not like an equal as he had been slowly becoming, but as a  _Master._

The thought sent an uneasy coil tightening through the Dragon's gut, twisting and menacing.

He had sworn to himself to never debase himself for the sake of a Master again, but John was unlike any other Human Sherlock had yet to encounter. He was kind, sometimes desperately so, and the Dragon knew in the pit of his gut with sudden certainty that the young soldier would never order him to subjugate. That in itself, was the problem.

John was too proud and too kind to admit that when faced with his superiors, he didn't stand a chance. His pacifist methods though perfect for Sherlock's temperament and nature, were going against direct orders and the culture of England. The Dragon knew this, that was in part why he grudgingly  _trusted_ John, but it meant that now they faced an issue neither knew entirely how to solve. Like a Rubik's cube, hopelessly tangled and scrambled so that no colours marked the right sides, They were being forced to rearrange themselves to at least appear normal and uniform, even if underneath Sherlock and John were anything but.

 

The Dragon felt a brief pang of something fierce warm through his chest, thawing his logical thought process and causing him to blink away pressure behind his eyes. No one.... Human or Dragon alike.... had  _ever_ done so much to ensure his own happiness and comfort. John had never pushed boundaries unless absolutely necessary, and could bend and flex to the point where suddenly he became firm steel. He was strong where Sherlock's weak points lay, and he could deal with the Dragon's anger, that much was evident. Shifting slowly back to his Human form, Sherlock stared at his hands. The strange, fleshy suit made of magic and biology was no different from any man's, if not for his collar he'd be indistinguishable from a mere mortal. Yet all of his life, he had been told that he  _was,_ and not just by his oppressor's. Dragons had begun to give up, the second generation of Hatchlings having never seen the sun from beyond the bars of cages.

 

When had Sherlock begun to take the fact that he was somehow less, that he for some reason  _deserved_ to be less than happy? When had  _dying_ become an answer to his problems, an escape?

John had reminded Sherlock of himself, and in the process, made the Dragon thoroughly disgusted by his own cowardice.

It was one thing to fight his slavery. Quite another to not be clever about it. Honestly, he wondered to himself if he hadn't hit his head on something, was his Mind-Palace really so out of shape that he couldn't process the fact that John  _needed_  him?

Sitting up abruptly, the Dragon looked at himself in the mirror. Milk-white skin laced with scars and blue-green eyes reflected an image to him. His image. The collar at his throat glinted, silver and electronic. Fingers brushed it carefully as a fire began to burn in the Dragon's mind, one made of ice.

He would help John in any way he could. For without John, Sherlock came to the very real conclusion that he'd be dead by now. And wouldn't that be  _dull._

 

The Dragon smiled, and his reflection copied the motion. It felt strange, like it was an action he had forgotten somewhere along the way. A magic trick returned.

 

Standing tall, Sherlock rose to reach for the stack of clothes he had folded precariously at the foot side of his bed.

No, he hadn't intended on making things worse.

For the first time, the Dragon had wanted to make things  _good._

He hadn't expected Dodge's insult to his honour.

He hadn't expected the voice speaking into his skull, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

He hadn't expected the surge of protectiveness that had overwhelmed him when  _that woman_ dared to question John's competence.

He miscalculated.

And now, Sherlock was quite unsure what he could do to fix it.

 

****

 

Kneeling was more annoying than he remembered it to be. It had been long enough that he no longer fell to his knees whenever he did something wrong or John called him over for company, and so Sherlock found even as he knelt at the foot of the stairs that he felt uncomfortable, awkward even. As it was, John's piercing gaze seemed to make the skin on Sherlock's arms crawl, the masked horror and... was that  _pity?_  Scrawled across his features. It made the Dragon grit his teeth, yet his eyes remained downcast even as those heavy army boots clunked towards him methodically. He felt rather than saw the hand that touched him without permission, cupping his chin and tilting his face upwards. Unwillingly a memory flashes darkly in Sherlock's mind, and his tail appeared to swish in discomfort even as he worked hard to control is distractingly fast breathing.

 

“ _His nose's been broken before, but looks like he was fairly young. Shouldn't cause any kind of problems. Does his dental work need anything? There's a free program...”_

 

Different hands once held him like this, pinned him in place. Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed lightly, the only thing that gave away his inner stress. To his surprise, there was a soft voice filtering into his mind, and unwanted intrusion. Cerioth's voice was like the melody of pan pipes, lilting and gentle, quiescent.

 

_**Greetings, my Lord. We are gracious to meet your acquaintance.** _

 

Not caring that he was being particularly rude by not using titles or flowering language, Sherlock growled.

 

_**Stay out of my mind. I let you into my territory, but only on my Master's request.** _

 

He emphasized the threat by having his tail lash a little harder. Kneeling on the floor, the petite Dragon did not appear overly threatening, but Sherlock knew better than anyone that appearances were deceiving. After all, he was currently pretending to be some mewling child, when in reality he was quickly analysing the woman holding his chin in a vice. Through his lashes, he picked out details of her career, her uniform telling a story to him like a map.

 

_Specialises in automatic guns of a variety, a crack shot, suspects John will be one with a little bit of practice. Hoping to draw him away from the medical end of his job and turn him into a good soldier. Possible promotion if John continues to follow her ideals, although she likes a good argument. A good fight. Which is good I suppose, as he looks like he wants to hit her right now._

 

Sure enough, John was breathing sharply through his nose, gritting his teeth as Dodge checked Sherlock over. It was just a physical examination, really the Dragon could care less, and yet his Master appeared to be highly disturbed and disquieted by Sherlock's pliancy to Dodge's ministrations. Which was rather foolish, in Sherlock's opinion, as if it weren't for John's presence the Dragon would have gladly bitten the hand still cupped under his chin.

 

_**That would be inadvisable, my Lord.** _

 

Cerioth's voice piped up immediately, infuriatingly polite and calm. Out loud, Dodge was conversing with John lightly, ignoring the silent signals that Sherlock's scales were giving. Threatening red, mottled blue and brown. Ugly, seething colours.

 

“ _His nose's been broken before, but looks like he was fairly young. Shouldn't cause any kind of problems. Does his dental work need anything? There's a free program...”_

 

All of a sudden, she was addressing him, tone sharp in an order. Sherlock complied without thinking, his mind beginning to meld itself painfully back into the subservient mentality he had been attempting to shed around John.

 

“ _Wings. Out where I can see them.”_

 

Still, Cerioth's voice mocked him, speaking into his thoughts and spiking Sherlock's temper. He could feel his patience beginning to wear thin, although he might have lasted. Even if the strange Dragon insisted on speaking to him.

 

_**Your Master is quite... lenient my Lord. However, I suspect Dodge may have him change his mind-set....** _

 

This was stated merely as fact, no threat or pity marking the words. The Dragon found himself instinctively bristling. Debasing himself was one thing, but to speak of  _John_  as if he were just like every other Human, as if he'd one day  _turn_ on Sherlock..... that was a different matter altogether.

However the Dragon may have remained calm, if it weren't for the other Dragon's nerve. His gall to reach out and  _touch_ something that was not his, halting John from bringing himself closer to Sherlock.

 

The Dragon's snarl was already rumbling through his frame threateningly before he could stop it, the sound low and dangerous like thunder on the eve of a horizon.

He mentally cursed when Dodge stiffened beside him.

That was not part of the plan.

 

John looked at him with a mixture of exasperation and pleading. The soldier's gaze turned to Dodge, and Sherlock realised with some annoyance that  _John_ was about to be blamed for  _his_ actions.

 

“ _Watson. Did it ever occur to you that in only a short while both you and your Dragon will be sharing the same breath with literally hundreds of other men, women and Dragons?”_

 

Sherlock watched as John slowly turned red, hating his own actions as much as he was actively hating the Human that was making the soldier cringe like a schoolboy caught stealing. It was a decidedly defensive posture John had adopted, and unwillingly the Dragon caught another flicker of insight into John's childhood that made his temper sky-rocket even as his scales burned a steady orange-red.

 

 

_He's been told off like this before. Many times. Hit too, by the way he's flinching._

 

And the Dragon's brain unwillingly conjured up an image of John, much smaller and younger and frightened, trying in vain to coil away from an unseen shadow that reached out to strike him across the mouth.

The final breaking point was  _pet._

 

Unthinking, half out of his mind with a mix of pent-up tension and anger, Sherlock sprang.

 

****

The gun was something John was hyper-aware of, its destination aimed solidly at Sherlock's skull. Not that the Dragon seemed to particularly notice this, as he was currently absorbed in trying to cover John with as much of his body as possible. His scales were a myriad of colours, hurting John's eyes as he was currently being pressed up against the wall, with little room to breathe or see as Sherlock's wings covered him like a shroud.

 

Dodge's hands were steady as she pointed the weapon, flanked by Cerioth as a living shield. Her dark eyes glinted as she calmly clicked off the safety, tone cool and detached despite Sherlock's rather menacing roar.

 

“Stand down, or I.  _Will._ Shoot.”

 

John could see in his superior's eyes that there was no hesitation, no mercy. He knew why, and swallowed at the thought. He had known that Dodge was old enough to have witnessed some of the last Air Raids that happened before the War truly began. John was just a shade too young. Still, even he remembered the aftermath. Scales littering the streets for years after, entire buildings looking singed or frozen over forever. In his District, there had been a Dragon's skeleton, massive and looming on the edge of the country. John had used to climb over its bones and play inside its ribcage, like it was a giant set of monkey bars. She had witnessed battle, not only as an adult but as a child, and saw no qualms about putting a supposedly 'unstable' weapon down like a dog. All of this John could understand....

 

And yet he still found himself all but screaming at Sherlock, desperately trying to break past the Dragon's chaos of emotions to get him to see reason. The normal, easy way in which John's brain normally could permeate into Sherlock's thoughts was now tangled and snarled by emotions, the signal malfunctioning even as the soldier tried to stop his friend from going into kill mode. His thoughts projected desperately, shouting at the Dragon as if raising his voice could somehow break through the creature's haze.

 

_Sherlock! Sherlock STOP! STOP OR SHE'LL KILL YOU! SHERLOCK  **PLEASE** -_

 

That seemed to grab the Dragon's attention slightly, John's begging. Sherlock's growls slowly quieted but did not dissipate as he regarded John, pinned upside down by the waist against the wall. His blue eyes were like chips of silver as he took in the soldier's body language, flicking over John's form as if reassuring him of the man's presence. Though his posture didn't change, the Dragon's scales cooled slightly from their heated red, turning into a slightly mollified turquoise as Sherlock took into account the mess he'd made.

And a mess it was indeed.

 

The tea tray was effectively smashed to pieces, the little cups overturned and dark tea stains making marks on the floor. The teapot itself was cracked, a sad river of hot water and tea leaves spreading around the scene of the crime like blood. John's chair had been tipped over, it lay on its side cold and broken.

Sherlock realised with a jolt he had just destroyed a part of his home, of  _John's_ home, and barely even realised he had done it.

 

With the acknowledgement of his actions, John's words slowly came shrieking to life in Sherlock's head. Like tuning in to a radio channel after a long moment of silence, it was nearly deafening. The Dragon recoiled from the shouting thoughts, rifling through them to get the heart of the message before shoving them away.

It was clear what John wanted. Sherlock would have been able to tell, even without the litany of - _GODSTOPSHERLOCKPLEASE-  _that filled his head. For the Dragon found himself looking into the soldier's eyes and seeing something he hadn't seen before.

 

_Terror._

 

Bald, violent terror. For the first time, Sherlock saw the expression he had expected to paint John's face from when they had first met, and it twisted knots in his stomach and made the roaring in his ears fade. In John's irises, he could see a reflection of himself, twin mirrors leering, and the Dragon for the very first time felt monstrous as he saw himself, a hybrid of Human and beast, of flesh and claw. The fragile, tenuous safety he had carefully shrouded himself with,  _disguised_ himself with unconsciously for John's sake had slipped, and now the man saw the true creature he was to rule over.

 

And Sherlock felt blind panic constrict his chest, because if he stood down, it would mean admitting weakness. Yet if he attacked, not only would he likely be injured if not die, John's trust in him would break.

 

For a moment he hovered, torn between the recent loyalty he had acquired in someone else and his own instincts, the defence he had built up to survive.

 

Dodge's voice broke through the thick atmosphere, distracting Sherlock from his inner turmoil. Her voice was tense.

“John. Move out of the way.”

 

It was then Sherlock realised that John had finally wormed his way from the grip of Sherlock's tail, the sturdy soldier having manoeuvred so that John stood directly between Sherlock and the path of the gun. His arms outspread, the man's eyes were a steely blue, even as Sherlock let loose and unconscious whine of panic as he took in the sight of his Master in danger. Though Dodge's position of her weapon did not waver, Cerioth let out a hiss of steam through his teeth, slitted eyes gold-white with crackling energy. His voice rumbled in both John and Sherlock's thoughts.

 

_**This method will not work. Stand down, please sir!** _

 

John stood his ground. Finally, Sherlock managed to gather his thoughts to speak to his friend.

_**John. John move.** _

 

Wordlessly, John shook his head. His jaw was clenched in suppressed fury. When he did speak, it was to address Dodge.

“You won't shoot him.”

 

The woman's eyes sparked, and her stance widened as she barked

“ _Watson!”_

 

John did not move. Did not flinch even as Dodge growled lowly in her throat and roared

“MOVE!”

John's voice was low, calm and yet just under the surface was steel as unbreakable as the rolling waves of an ocean.

“I promised to care for him. I won't let you. If you want him, you'll have to shoot me too.”

 

Sherlock, unable to stay still a moment longer, made as if to tackle John. His superior strength brought the man to the ground, despite John's ragged shout of protest. Pinning him to the floor, snarling and panting, Sherlock trembled and caged the soldier with his limbs. He dared not look up, dared not even breathing incorrectly as sweat beaded his brow. Beneath him, John fought with all of his might, but it was like a butterfly attacking a lion for all of the good it did. Sherlock would not let him move.

The Dragon looked up at Dodge, who watched the entire scene with a kind of impassiveness that made Sherlock's throat close hotly. It would be better this way, he reasoned as he stared down the barrel of the gun. After all, it was meant to be a Dragon's honour, to die for their Master's sake. One of the few ways they could earn medals. His would shine on the little dirt plot that was designated for him in the end, the only marker other than the recently upturned earth.

 

Still, he couldn't help but wince as John let out a broken hiss of

“ _No.”_

 

Dodge's voice was cool. Calculating.

“Are you sure?”

 

For the first time, she looked Sherlock directly in the eye. The Dragon lifted his chin, ignoring the mental and verbal pleas the Human beneath him gave. John's body was warm, pressed against him. Living compared to the ice of Sherlock's blood. So very much alive.

His silence answered for him.

 

Dodge raised her gun towards him, and the Dragon closed his eyes and braced himself. Point blank range. He would not survive.

For the first time in a very long while, Sherlock wished he could have lived.

 

He heard the metallic squeeze of the trigger.

Then-

_click._

 

Silence.

It stretched out seemingly endlessly, Sherlock hardly dared to breathe. He could hear his own heartbeat, massive compared to John's thundering away. For a moment, he could taste copper in his mouth.

Dodge's voice was far calmer, her tone oddly... proud.

 

“Congratulations. You  _passed._ ”


	15. Appearances Are Deceiving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays! :D I hope you all enjoy the New Year! Many thanks to Neverwhere as always for editing! 
> 
> Have some holiday angst! :3
> 
> THIS LOVELY FANART BY [ Slytherinne](http://thehausofholmes.tumblr.com/post/71565571879/fanart-that-ive-done-for-the-sherlock-fic-the) is fantastic!!! thank you so, so much!!!

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Mates and Hatchlings (Biology and romantic attachments):** _Though both sexes within the Dragon species are capable of bearing children, a Dragon cannot have an egg asexually. Dragons mate for life, and when such a Bond is initiated hormones react within the Dragon's body, allowing the womb within to prepare itself an egg. When they are pregnant there will be many signs beforehand that they are carrying a child (See page 752 for Details on the individual species and what signs to watch for). Out of the Mated pair, the one that is physically healthier will tend to bear the child (although if both are equally healthy then it is possible for both to become pregnant). The Mating Bond allows for the couple to be in constant contact at all times, as well as allow them to feel each other's emotions and general mental state. It is an incredibly powerful, yet vulnerable link, which is heightened during a Dragon's "Nesting" stage (see page 73 for details). In fact, it is arguably the most delicate time for a Mated pair, and it is not uncommon for the two Dragons to attempt to remove themselves from large crowds for a time, in order to ease their struggle as well as provide a quiet place for the birth. The most common kind of Bond is same-species mating (meaning Northerns with Northerns, Chinese with Chinese, etc.) although with the collapse of Dragon society, it is now more common to see intermingled couples. It is considered highly Taboo in most countries to initiate a Human-Dragon Mating Bond. This is because it is not only extremely dangerous for both the Dragon and Human, but incredibly rare. A Dragon will Mate once in their lifetime, and typically live longer than their Human counterpart. If their Mate or Hatchling should happen to die, it often kills the Dragon slowly, depression causing them to not eat or sleep, and in extreme cases f_ _ly until they exhaust themselves and die by falling back to Earth. If they do happen to survive, the Dragon understandably will be severely changed in both personality and actions. This is heightened in cases of trauma, such as their Mate dying violently. Simply put, Humans are fragile, and so not a good choice for Bonding. However, to say it is unheard of would be a lie on my part, and so I feel the need to include it within these pages (see page 554 A for Details on "Taboo Pairings")._

 

 

 

 

It had to be repeated. Twice. By the third time, Dodge's impatience was visible. She holstered the empty gun onto her hip, staring at John as if he was more than a little thick. Although the soldier might have missed it, as the instant his superior officer dropped her weapon Sherlock frantically began pulling him towards the door, herding him towards escape. Only John's solid refusal to be terrorized out of his own home caused him to stand his ground, physically dragging his feet and shouting for explanations.

 

“What the _hell-What the fuck_ did you mean by “you passed”?!? This was some kind of sick, stupid _test?_ ”

Cerioth spoke up then, halting John before he could get himself rolling on a furious tangent. The Chinese Dragon had carefully shifted back to his Human form, and now looked as harmless as ever. He returned to the kneeling position he seemed intent to maintain around Humans, but his voice was as strong and firm as an oak branch.

 

“Please, sir. It might prove to be beneficial to listen to my Mistress; her reasons may prove to be less sadistic than they appear to be at first glance.”

 

Sherlock, through the haze of instinctive _Mine_ and _Protect_ swirling through his thoughts, growled in warning while keeping his eyes focused on Dodge's hands. At the first sign of aggression, he would attack. He didn't care if there would be consequences, _didn't care_ if he might end up getting injured. This woman was a viper, and John, for all of his steadfastness and bravery was as breakable as an egg shell against a bullet. Dodge meanwhile appeared indifferent to the immediate danger, sighing with irritation as she repeated herself for she felt was the tenth time.

 

“I _said_ it was a test. All of it. Right down to the original invite. My job is to see whether or not you have made your Dragon into a suitable soldier for the army, and my conclusion from these events is that you _have._ ”

 

As if to prove her point, she waved a hand to Sherlock's form, still half-morphed into a formidable creature of scale and teeth. The Dragon spat ice in her direction, the frost hitting the floorboards and immediately jutting upwards in perilous spikes. They formed a intimate, deadly ring around John. Macabre, but well-fortified. John privately suspected that if one were stupid enough to try and cross the ring, the spikes would move and grow. Like living spears, he could picture the damage they could wreak on a human body. Dodge, on the other hand, seemed nonplussed by the threat. She crossed her arms over her chest and huffed, waiting for John's response. He was quick to give it.

 

“And just _how,_ exactly, does giving me a heart-attack and sending _my_ Dragon into a frothing rage prove anything? Did you test Mike this way as well? Because if you did I'll have you know that you terrorized a victim used to being lied to and taken advantage of. Molly-”

 

“Passed _her_ test as well, with flying colours I might add.” Dodge smoothly interrupted John's rant before he could gain momentum for a full storm. “I organise different tests for each of my assigned teams, based on what I believe they needed most when originally paired to their Dragons.” She fixed John with a piercing stare and pointed at Sherlock, her voice authoritative and fierce.

 

“ _Mike's_ Dragon lacked determination and steadfastness, and she cowered at everything. However when I tested her by questioning her every move, her every _motive_ , she held steady. She did not cry, and she did not cower or whimper. She stood firmly by Mike, and listened to him and didn't back down. She's learned to trust her Master above her own fear and uncertainty.” John blinked in surprise, and found he was reluctantly proud of the little fire Dragon. He was hesitant to admit he might not have thought Molly to have the strength to defend his friend; for once he was pleased to have been proven wrong. Still, he fumed. Dodge however was not to be deterred.

 

“ _Your_ Dragon's problem from the start has been obvious. Loyalty. He lacks it in spades. I read his file and your Dragon has had a total of _twenty-three_ Masters and Mistresses in his lifetime. That's more than _thrice_ the regular amount. He's known for not only being aggressive, but cunning and vindictive. Revenge-minded.”

 

John straightened indignantly, spitting his words like venom.

“Can you _really_ blame him? I don't much about his previous Masters, but Sherlock's not one to do something without provocation-”

 

“I know.” Dodge said simply. It was such an easy admission that for a moment the young soldier paused, blinking in confusion and surprise. John scrambled to find some flaw in the statement, but his rage was quickly melting away in exasperation and befuddlement. He _wanted_ to be angry, _God_ he did...

But Dodge wasn't excusing her actions. Rather, she seem unconcerned as to whether or not John judged her, letting him draw his own opinions and conclusions from the facts and facts alone.

 

“I needed to see if Sherlock _cared_ for you, or rather, if he trusted enough to defend you. If he was _loyal_ enough that if came to it, he would take a bullet for you. I needed to see that he wouldn't run away at the first opportunity. The desert is large and endless out there, and approximately a quarter of the Dragons we train attempt to defect to the other side. Attempt, mind. They don't get very far, usually.”

 

John lifted his chin, blue eyes ablaze with defiance. In front of him, Sherlock remained a coiled spring of tension. His snarls came like the unending engine of a motor cycle. Making a sudden deduction, the soldier sighed.

“You told Mrs. Hudson not to come upstairs. She'd be here by now, if she knew Sherlock was in distress. She loves the git more than any landlady should.”

 

His superior shrugged without preamble.

“I did what had to be done to ensure no civilians would be hurt because of my test.” She mumbled the last part almost as an afterthought, trailing off for a moment to look at something that wasn't actually there. Beside her, Cerioth shifted minutely. His eyes were downcast, but John thought he caught the edge of a small frown. A moment later, it was smoothed back into bland neutrality. When John returned his gaze to Dodge, she was back to explanation mode.

 

“I understand if you think my methods cruel. Believe me, I do. But I'd rather be seen as cruel than watch a boy that's only just moved away from everything he's ever known be shot down like cannon-fodder in a bloodbath. The fact remains that out of the two of you, the Dragon should always be the one with the instinct to protect. Even if I had shot Sherlock at point-blank range, he may very well have survived. His scales are strong enough to deflect bullets at a far enough distance, and at a close one they make it difficult to actually inflict damage to his insides.”

 

John struggled to keep the growl out of his voice.

“I won't have Sherlock diving in to defend me at the cost of his own life. I _won't_ let him-”

 

“Then you will be the first to die, John Watson, and no amount of training or rules will help you,” she interrupted, focusing on John with a piercing stare. Her eyes seemed to hold in them a certainty that made the young soldier's stomach twist in discomfort, and though he tried, he could not maintain his fury. It extinguished into a sick kind of foreboding, and without thinking John's fingers traced the sleeve that hid the curling tattoo on his arm. Sherlock's defensive posture remained unchanged, but his tail stiffened, ceasing its restless thrashing. The Dragon's eyes were narrowed in calculation, and he seemed to be mentally taking Dodge apart piece by piece.

 

“I want you to leave.” John eventually stated, unsure of how he felt any more, unwilling to let go of his animosity, unsure of where to direct it. His teeth grit in displeasure at being played, but there was something in Dodge's expression, a look in her face that made the soldier think that there was something more at play than he was aware of here. His superior didn't fight his order, raising her hands in supplication before gesturing for Cerioth to rise to his feet. Her Dragon did so without protest, pausing to bow deeply in Sherlock's direction.

 

_**I apologise for my rude behaviour, my Lord. I do hope that you can find it within you to if not forgive us, understand our motives.** _

 

To John's surprise, Sherlock responded. His voice was edged with the strain of nerves.

 

_**Leave. Though my condolences are with you for your loss, it does not excuse what you have done.** _

 

 _Condolences?_ John wondered what it was that Sherlock saw, written in the Chinese Dragon's stature. However, neither Dragon seemed to deign it necessary to answer the soldier's quiet question. Cerioth tilted his head in acknowledgement of the sympathies given, but his eyes said more. They were filled with a distant sort of sadness.

 

On their way out, John noted that Dodge rested a hand on the shoulder of her Dragon. The gesture was strangely intimate, for someone who later barked orders for her Dragon to _'Get the door for the landlady.'_ Her last words to John held in them an unknown weight, and they caused the soldier to nearly sway, unsure whether to be grudgingly flattered or sick.

 

“For what it counts, _my s_ uperiors suggested I shouldn't even bother with you two. Said both of you were more trouble than you were worth. I told them exactly where they could stuff it.” Her smile was small, but it was real. John did not return it, but his hands tightened minutely at his sides. He nodded pointedly, just a small jerk of his chin. It was enough.

 

John found himself alone in his flat with a seething Sherlock and a pounding headache. Worse, he realised that not only did he somehow pass the final test to going to war, but he was now an honorary soldier. He groaned, cupping his chin and moving to rub at his face and eyes.

 

Sherlock comforted him in his typical Draconian way: drawing himself up to his full height, the creature eyed the lock to the flat critically. Then, with a small nod, he dove for the door, marking his territory and staking his claim by rubbing against the wooden surface before settling down in front of it like a gargoyle. His rumbling purr of satisfaction as John gave up and settled down next to him was absurdly pleased and smug. John tried not to feel like he was spoiling the beast as his hands settled in Sherlock's hair, fingers combing absently through his midnight curls.

 

There was a lot to think about, and John Watson figured he might as well be sitting to do it. If Mrs. Hudson knocked lightly on the door to let them know she'd left a plate of biscuits for them on the top step, well, neither Dragon or man could find room to complain.

 

 

****

It was two days before they were expected to be posted that Sherlock's wings finally looked healthy enough to fly. John woke that morning to hear the great, sweeping noises of Sherlock stretching the leathery appendages in and out experimentally, the thin membrane between each outline of the structure glowing a blazing blue in the morning sun. He stood in the living room, gazing pensively outside. There was a restless energy within the Dragon, a contained and restrained hyperactivity. Both John and Sherlock had been skirting about this day, knowing it would happen soon. The oil had done a good job of healing the Dragon's wing, the only visible remnant the pale silver scar. His powerful wing muscles were still weak, yet hadn't atrophied during the creature's forced grounding. This was in part because Sherlock remained fairly active whilst in captivity, and partly due to the fact (as Sherlock explained in a bored tone of voice) that during the summer Northern Dragons “ _would normally go through long periods of hibernation in order to avoid the heat, and thus we are used to long periods without movement or flight, obvious John, really.”_

Sherlock had also on an unrelated note, become more comfortable arguing with John. He also felt more at ease to joke around, and play pranks – albeit in his unique, Dragon-like fashion - such as leaving experiments in the teapot to find, or coating the floor in a thin, clear layer of ice to have John slip on for later.

 

Even though John didn't always know how far to push the Dragon, he knew somehow deep in his gut that today was the day. This was for many reasons, but a large one was quite simple: they had run out of time. Sherlock _needed_ flight to survive this war, and he couldn't show up to the base without having at least one practice run in the city. The second fact was: the Dragon was _ready._

It was obvious, if one only looked.

Sherlock's back was an expanse of finely-tuned muscle, still too thin but getting stronger by the day. He was resting lightly on the balls of his feet whenever he stood, and those eyes, even when they were supposed to be trained on the task at hand, were inevitably drawn to London's rainy skies. It was an instinct, one hard to suppress, and Sherlock had done an admirable job while waiting for his wing to heal properly.

 

He could wait no longer.

John had yet to pour himself a cup of tea when he heard the low noise of longing that came from Sherlock's chest. The soldier turned to find his Dragon lingering by the entrance of the kitchen, slightly pointed ears tinged an impatient and agitated silver. His eyes were the exact same shade, slitted imperiously. Still, Sherlock never looked quite so vulnerable, or so uncertain. His voice was a low question in John's head, soft and almost... afraid.

 

… _**Time?**_

 

John smiled, and it was a comforting, warm thing. He clicked the kettle off, leaving it for later. John could have tea at any time wished. This, however was something he'd likely not see everyday. From his pocket he drew a yellow wristband, made of silicone. The letters printed upon it were Sherlock's ticket to being allowed to fly in London, and as John stepped forward to slip the band on the creature's wrist, he read the words out for him.

 

“ _Dragon In Flight. D.I.F._ The government certainly does love acronyms.” He chuckled, and Sherlock cracked a small, crooked smile. The Dragon was surprised however, when John revealed something else from its hiding place in the depths of his pockets. A brass key glinted ornately in his fingers, the black cord dangling from his palm as he lifted it to gently wrap around Sherlock's neck. The Dragon looked at the key with curiosity, long, pale fingers curling about the handle with interest. Sherlock could read the address on its end, confusion etched into his features as he asked aloud

 

_**Why are you giving me the key to the flat?** _

 

John's voice was confident and sure. He looked at Sherlock firmly, but his lower lip was snagged between his teeth. It was rare for a Master to do this, to hand his Dragon his freedom to come and go as he wished. Most told their servants to request the key to the outside when needed. In fact, many didn't even allow their Dragon that much until at least one year of service. However, John wasn't most people. He refused to blush like a primary school-child, his voice gruff and determined. “This is your place too. It's our flat now. It will be _our_ flat when we return. So I figured, you needed a key.” Neither of them commented on the _when._ As far as both were concerned, it would always be _when,_ never _if._ At least, not when they spoke of it aloud. Privately... well, that was a different matter entirely.

 

Sherlock's gaze was inscrutable but penetrating as he stared John down, searching for hidden or ulterior motive. However, the Human refused to flinch away, his jaw solid and unwavering, hands loose at his sides. The picture of someone giving an order. Except John wasn't ordering, Sherlock knew that now.

John was _asking._ John was _pleading._ This, so close to a posting, this was trust, and the Dragon marveled at the lengths that the wonderful, foolish, _brilliant_ man before him would go to in order to gain Sherlock's faith. John was offering a way to run, and even if it was a slim chance, had it been anyone else the Dragon may have taken it.

Yet.

Yet, he suddenly had no wish to be anywhere, anywhere at all, but on the roof of _**221 B.**_ Sherlock only wanted to fly, with John at his side watching him.

And really, who was he to refuse this act of trust? Who was he to deny John this small peace of mind? Though the Dragon did not entirely understand why he'd risk it, he could see his Master _meant it._ Whatever _it_ was. So Sherlock raised no protest, merely stared at the key in bemusement. Then, he tucked it under the collar of his dark black shirt, feeling its weight settling against his chest.

 

John only allowed himself to feel triumph when the Dragon turned abruptly, marching towards the fire escape. Sherlock, as elegant as a bloody swan and twice as gangly, sat on the window pane for a moment and smirked in invitation. Then, the Dragon slowly, _slowly_ , allowed himself to lean back.

 

Too late, John realised what the idiot was about to do. Lunging for the skinny git, his cry of fear as Sherlock _back flipped_ out the window was drowned out by the great, enormous rush of a gigantic pair of _wings_ unfolding mid-air.

 

And just as John reached the window frame, Sherlock lurched inches from the London cobblestone blow, wrenching himself upwards from his free-fall in which he could feel his heart pound and the wind rush through his ears.

 

And the Dragon, the bloody, sodding _stupid wonderful mad brilliant_ _ **fantastic**_ Dragon soared upwards, passing John in a rush of air that took the man's breath away both figuratively and literally, and _flew._

 

****

 

During the drive home from Baker Street Dodge abruptly told Cerioth to pull over. The Dragon had been silent for most of the ride, but the white knuckle grip he kept on the steering wheel belied a tension in the air he carefully refused to let show. However, both Mistress and servant had known each other for a long time, and when Sara Dodge let a sharp breath out through her teeth and ordered him to pull over onto the side of the road, Cerioth knew he hadn't formed a strong enough defense against his emotions.

 

The Chinese Dragon refused to speak as he cut the engine, looking out at the flat expanse of country they were in. Sara and he lived on the outskirts of London, and as such they had been driving for quite some time. Already the sun had begun to sink lowly in the sky. It was always strange to the Dragon, how time could seem to speed by in a blink, if he did not pay attention. How his own thoughts could have him float on a current of absence and not care exactly where time lead him. He became lost sometimes in that stream, and his Mistress often had to dig him out.

 

Not many knew, just how often Dodge had done just that. Gripped him by the hand and pulled him back into reality. As it was, he tried not to feel like a failure when his Mistress said softly “You're in no state to drive. Give me the keys.”

 

Though it was an order, it was a gentle one. Cerioth listened automatically, fingers cupping the jingling ring of metal tightly before releasing it into her waiting palm. The edges of the keys glinted in the sunset, dark gold and blazing silver. It reminded the Dragon of precious treasure, and his base instincts absurdly found comfort in their shine. Still it did not last long, and he soon found himself drifting slightly again as he reflected on the past, Dodge's words to John ringing in his head.

 

_The fact remains that out of the two of you, the Dragon should always be the one with the instinct to protect._

 

It echoed and warped, added in with the mixture of memories and emotions stirring within the creature's chest. It was a familiar ache, but not one he particularly enjoyed. The feeling tightened further when Dodge, lighting a cigarette in one hand and rolling down the window, blew smoke into the air and murmured

“It wasn't your fault, you know.”

 

She looked not unlike a Dragon herself, smoke leaving her lips in rings and trails before curling outside. The end of her light was a bright ember, red-orange and brilliant like magma. Cerioth looked at it instead of her eyes as he spoke, his tone carefully deferential and distant.

“I'm sorry Mistress, but I must disagree-”

 

“You were protecting her. It was not a mistake. I don't care what you or any one else says. It. Wasn't. A. Mistake. I do not regret being injured. I do not blame you.”

 

The Dragon hissed a breath through his teeth, an iota of fire sparking in his eyes.

“Mistress, you nearly _died-_ ”

 

“And your _child and Mate_ were murdered in cold blood before your eyes.”

 

It was too much. Cerioth bit his lip, looking at his hands. They were in his lap, trembling and pressed together. If they hadn't been, he might have broken the steering wheel with the cold fury that settled in his gut. Dodge's voice never rose, just kept that same, gentle tone. It held in it no pity, but it was not the hard edge of command she normally used either. It was a strange mix of the two, somewhere between a scolding mother and a friend trying to offer comfort. She drew one more drag of her light before tossing it away, pointing firmly to the back seat, mouth a hard-drawn line. Allowing no argument.

 

“Lie down. It's okay. I know the rest of the way.”

 

Her Dragon's voice held just the faintest hint of irony in its tone.

“What of your golden rule Miss? Shouldn't a Dragon's instinct be to serve its Master or Mistress first before their own needs?”

 

Dodge refused to be cowed. Instead, she physically pushed Cerioth into the back of the car, until he was lying on the seats in a curved ball. She then took over the driver's seat, inserting the keys with a precise twist. The rumbling of the engine was just loud enough that she could pretend she couldn't hear the near-silent sobs quaking the Dragon behind her. Her answer was small but firm.

 

“You've never stopped putting me before your own needs. Today just proved that more. I told you that you didn't need to come, idiot.” But there was no bite to her words.

 

If she noticed How Cerioth transformed in the back seat, how he became his true form as he remembered in silence, she wouldn't say. Instead, she turned on the radio, and its drone drowned out the Dragon's soft tears.

 

After all, a Dragon was a creature of pride, down to the very last breath. Even Dodge knew that to cry in front of someone was the ultimate scandal. Rude. Offensive in Dragon culture.

 

But she was no Dragon, and frankly, she didn't much mind.

 

Bon Jovi filled their silence for the rest of the ride home, speaking apologies neither could quite bring themselves to say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	16. Kandahar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a chapter a little bit earlier than I would have usually ^_^ Hope you all enjoy! This is where the plot actually starts rolling! :3 Many thanks to my fantastic beta Neverwhere as always for editing and being a generally amazing individual! :D

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**On the Political Unrest within Afghanistan (World Issues):** _With the Dragon War originally breaking out in the east, many different countries jumped on the chance of political unrest in order to expand their rule. Due to the brutal assassination of the Royal family, the Dragons as a collective whole were only too happy to encourage the violent skirmishes. However it was Egypt that first discovered that fighting Dragons was more successfully done if they had Dragons themselves. As a result, most of the world (in fact all of it save for Britain and Parts of the United States) found themselves kneeling to the Egyptian Prime Minister, who came to rule most of the world with an iron fist (see page 743 part C for more information). As a result, Dragon slavery became common, and much of the Draconian resistance died out. As a last stand, one rebel group still remains to this day, centred in Afghanistan. Although little is known about the resistance, they call themselves the **Draski** , which is a bastardisation of the original phrase **Draskiria Doch Baithel.** In Dragon-Tongue the phrase roughly translates as  **We fight until our last breath.** There is no information as to who leads this group, but there is suspicion that their reach is wider than it appears at just a glance.  **  
**_

 

On the evening before their flight to the compound, Dodge requested that John, Sherlock, Mike and Molly meet her at Hyde Park for a final celebration before their trip. John initially wanted to refuse, but Mrs. Hudson firmly shooed both boys out of the flat, claiming she needed to dust and that they needed to have “ _At least one happy memory together to come home to._ ”

 

Sherlock, to his credit, didn't seem to be in the mood to object. The Dragon was all but silent for the duration of the tube ride, but his wings flexed restlessly, turning an uneasy violet as he allowed himself to be searched by the bomb-squad at the front gates. Security nearly didn't allow John through - he had forgotten about the small pocket-knife he had been keeping in his pocket to peel apples for Sherlock (the Dragon had taken to experimenting with fruit, eating it in mass quantities as of late in a variety of ways and forms). When one particular officer became too aggressive in his questioning however, Sherlock's low snarl of warning quickly put John on the fast-track for admittance. Soon the pair were on their way, Sherlock practically sulking in the sweeping expanse of his coat.

 

On board the tube, there had been several other people, including their servants of varying size and age seated at their side, or standing over them while gripping the slick poles of the car for support. John saw an elderly English Dragon patiently listening to a little boy, nodding and murmuring a soft “Yes, young Master,” whenever the child looked at him expectantly. The collar around the creature's wrinkled throat was made of a rich and ornate silver, carved eloquently with heavy-looking designs. Most likely a nanny then for a wealthy family. Across the car on the other side, a Chinese Hatchling peered animatedly out the windows at the bright blur of lights that whizzed by. He dutifully held in his arms a bag of groceries that looked just a shade too heavy for him, and his collar was soft brown leather. His mistress was a young woman, long hair coiffed elegantly. Around his collar was a lead, the little Dragon being much too young to be given free reign. John looked away when the Hatchling felt the young man's eyes on him and turned.

 

Sherlock spoke softly in his head.

 

_**It could be worse. Judging from the state of the Hatchling's clothes as well as the fact that he appears well-fed and cared for, I'd say he's as close to a replacement to a still-birth that the woman could afford. He is far luckier than many a servant.** _

 

John didn't comment on how most of the time, Sherlock refused to use the word _slave._ Instead, he reached over to adjust the Dragon's scarf more tightly about the pale column of his throat, and didn't protest when Sherlock let out a sharp breath through his nose and leaned minutely into his side.

 

 

Dodge, Cerioth, Mike and Molly were already waiting for them when Sherlock and John arrived. The group stood under the shade of a large oak, broad and firm in its trunk as a sleeping elephant, and permitting enough space to allow for conversation. Mike was wearing a clean button-down, its new buttons glinting softly in the morning light. John tried not to notice how under-dressed he felt in comparison (he had woken to find a certain scaly git has effectively flooded the bath again, leaving him to scrub clean the debris). John only had time to throw on a grubby t-shirt, jeans and his jacket. His mood didn't change when he saw that Dodge was dressed in a soft white blouse and black skirt, flaring outwards just above her knees.

 

At first, Sherlock was rather unnerved by the large crowds of people filing in and out of the park, and his lip curled in distaste when the English Dragon timidly chirped a greeting from behind Mike's wider frame. Although he did not appear out of place from anyone else, his posture screamed resentment and mistrust, and his hands twitched in his pockets restlessly. His spine was a straight line of tension that refused to bend, and despite the mental comfort of John's thoughts, the Dragon couldn't help but feel as though his partner disliked this situation with equal fervour. John didn't bother to hide his glare when he locked eyes with Dodge, blue eyes burning with irritation even as his features softened to greet his friend. He shook Mike's hand and nodded to Molly, and finally, he turned to introduce to them his Dragon.

 

“Mike, Molls, this is Sherlock. He's a bit of a git at times, but he's my partner and friend.” His Dragon preened slightly at the words of praise, although he did his best not to look so pleased. Sherlock inclined his head to the cowering English Dragon, his voice rippling smoothly along her mental wave in greeting.

 

_**It is an honour to meet you, my Lady. I have learned much about you from my Master.** _

 

Molly's face turned a rather alarming shade of pink as she looked at Sherlock, and with a small squeak of unbridled terror she ducked behind Mike for safety. The bright yellow of the sundress she wore did little to help her blend in, and haltingly, a small and fragile voice responded.

 

_**Th- The pleasure is mine, my Lord. For the likes of you to address the likes of me is uncommon, so forgive me if I am nervous.** _

 

_The likes of her?_

 

John wondered to himself, and noticed as Sherlock's gaze flicked briefly to a small birthmark on Molly's shoulder. At first glance, it was almost shaped like a tiny spiral.

 

Before he could linger on the image too closely however, Dodge cleared her throat to gain everyone's attention.

 

“As you all are aware, this is your last night in London.” Her serious tone sobered the group firmly, forcing them to look at their future with grim faces. The lieutenant kept her chin raised, dark brown eyes cool and professional as she gestured to Cerioth. “From this point on, you are not just Man and Dragon. You are a functioning pair, a unit, and at the compound you'll be trained as such.”

 

As if to demonstrate, Dodge's fingers reached out in a rare display of affection towards her Dragon, resting her hand lightly upon his shoulder. Almost immediately, Cerioth sank to his knees. Completely unhesitant. One hundred percent trusting. Rewarding him, the lieutenant ran a hand through his short dark hair.

“Each relationship between a person and their Dragon is different, but within a military context, some things must remain constant. For one-”

 

She snapped sharply, Cerioth within a second morphing into his true form, coiling about her protectively. Steam hissed out from between the Dragon's open maw, and Molly if possible shrank more deeply into Mike's side. Sherlock appeared stoic and unimpressed as usual. John wondered though at the brief spark of colour he felt pass between their Bond when the creature's eyes met Sherlock's, challenging his stare.

 

“A snap or a hand signal is the most common sign between partners that they want their Dragon to shift.” Dodge explained casually, lightly stroking the ridge between two of Cerioth's protruding spines. “However in your case John, being a _**Thrall**_ means you have an edge over your team-mates.” Another snap, and Cerioth was once again Human in appearance. His eyes flared a blazing gold before they cooled into remote and controlled onyx.

 

“As a result, chances are that you will be put in a group that has a high amount of field work, probably working with with at least one other _**Thrall**_ group so that if one of your teams are mortally injured or taken hostage, you can keep constant contact with each other and arrange back-up. It will also be your job to control a Dragon if it turns feral, or decides to try and rebel. This means you may very well have to put one down.” Dodge hesitated then, voice softening slightly even as her eyes burned fiercely.

 

“Don't fucking hesitate. You hesitate, and you'll find your innards thrown half a mile away from your corpse. Not to mention the lives of your team-mates will then be at an even higher rate of risk.”

 

John swallowed and nodded, hands curling into fists at the mention of his responsibility over other lives. As a medic alone, he knew he'd feel the weight of more lives on his shoulders than the average soldier. Now however, he could feel the pressure all too clearly. For one dizzying moment, he felt as if he were ten years old again, holding a baseball bat and expected to hit the ball on his first try. His father had been having one of his good days, and he hadn't wanted to disappoint him. As if sensing the darker direction in which his thoughts had twisted themselves, Sherlock's rumbling voice hummed in his thoughts like a salve.

 

_**Steady John. Mike's looking a little green around the eyes.** _

 

Sure enough, Stamford was trembling. Not terribly so, but enough to effectively distract John from his terror. He turned to help his friend as Sherlock looked pensively at Dodge, mentally taking her apart piece by piece.

 

To her credit, the Lieutenant never once refused to meet his gaze head-on.

 

The atmosphere was arid and hot on John's face as he walked down the steps away from the plane. It hit him like a slap, making him wince and suck in a breath. His uniform felt too big and loose on his frame, nearly dwarfing him and hanging heavy on his shoulders. It made him feel as though he were a little boy again, dressing up in his grandfather's old uniform and pretending to do drills with the other kids. The memory floated in his mind as he roughly lugged his rucksack over his shoulder, swallowing his apprehension. Kandahar. Or at least, what was left of it.

 

Once, long ago, there had been another war on this land. Stepping onto the dry terrain, John could see it as plain as if it was inscribed into the walls. There was a heavy, oppressive feeling to the very air that he breathed in, and he tasted on his tongue sand that had been tainted by gun metal and blood. But perhaps he was only being overly sensitive, as Sherlock all but bounded from the plane in great leaps, lunging towards the landing strip on long, powerful legs that seemed to barely touch the ground. The Dragon had vehemently complained to John all throughout the plane ride, claiming the metal contraption had made him want to vomit and that the loud engines had scrambled his brain. Sherlock did not seem to care that the half-dozen other men John had ridden with (all soldiers, as it was a military transport) were looking at him strangely, nor did he seem to notice John's subtle hints for him to _calm down_ until the young man was all but shouting inside his head.

 

_Sherlock! At my side! Remember, you have to stay at my side!_

 

Still, Sherlock did not seem inclined to listen. Instead he pushed his way into the airport eagerly, tail snapping behind him in a rather serpentine salute. John could only follow, cursing lowly under his breath as behind him, Dodge sighed.

 

“Give him an hour. In this heat, he'll not be running for too much longer.” Her tone remained faintly amused, as she gazed out upon the barren desert. Even after several months away, she felt her shoulders lower automatically, back straightening as she assumed her customary role of being in command.

 

They were officially in enemy territory.

 

****

They were assigned to tough desert-painted trucks, with canopies blocking off the beating sun that seemed to leach into the very soil, and set everything aflame. The back was a simple bench, and John and Sherlock looked curiously at the village they drove through, as they were separated from the others they knew. The Dragon stayed close to John, now that they were seated across from other soldiers and servants. His cool body temperature kept him from sweltering in the heat, and wordlessly chilled John's side as he leaned against him. Sherlock looked strange in his military garb, dark green shirt fitting better on his slim frame than John's shirt did, his collar shimmering with the reflection of the sun as they both peered outside.

 

Kandahar was a bustle of activity. Due to it being a section of land that had been conquered again and again by various countries, the streets were filled with the crowded noise of Human and Dragon life going about their business without thought. The streets were filled with market-like activity, and like a vibrant rainbow of colour, John could see clothing from every part of the world being worn in the crowd. Egypt had been Kandahar's main ruler now for years however, so it wasn't difficult to see this was where most of the sartorial inspiration came from. The general designs were billowing scarves and saris, hijabs and long clothes to keep the sun from burning skin and blistering people's faces. At least, that's what John saw when he looked at the shop vendors trying attract their attention by hawking their merchandise to the soldiers as they passed by.

 

Sherlock by contrast, saw the _Dragons._

 

Whereas the Humans looked at the very least well-fed, if not rather opulent in their attire, the servants at their side caused the back of Sherlock's neck to prickle with uncertainty. He saw dark eyes, whip-marks and collars that were not only spiked, but designed to choke and subdue when pulled. He saw Hatchlings, little more than Drakelings crouched in the dust and sand by the shops, clinging to their parent's clothes as they hunted the ground for dropped bits of fruit and cheese. Like mice they had huge eyes and skinny frames, dwarfed by clothes that were clearly patched and ragged from long wear. It made the Dragon's scales crawl suddenly, to look these cousins of his directly in the eye. Tugging once at his collar distractedly, Sherlock did not respond when John gasped at the magnificence and splendour of all the things the market had to offer. He couldn't blame his partner though for not noticing. After all, every Dragon Sherlock saw had their heads ducked down, their bodies curled so as to appear as small and invisible as possible. If he weren't wearing a collar himself, Sherlock might not have seen them either.

Might not have recognised the hate for him, masked by a veil in their eyes.

 

John was only startled out of his people-watching by a light voice, commenting towards him across from the truck.

“Middle-class, these guys are. You should see the royalty here, it's ridiculous. They collar their Dragons in solid gold, and are right jerks that refuse to speak English to us even though they could.”

 

Startled, the young soldier turned to find himself being greeted by a tall, agile-looking man, only a few years older than John himself. A shock of chestnut-coloured hair fell over a highly freckled face, boyish green eyes peeking out from under its fringe. He sat with his hands clasped between his knees, shirt covered by a jacket of all things, much to John's mystification. Beside him, his Dragon sat primly, but John gaped at her all the same.

 

For one, she was beautiful as a sunrise, her hair a deep mahogany red, tied up with military-neat precision. She bore the colouring of an English Dragon, eyes piercing blue and cheeks rosy pink. But that wasn't what gave her presence. Rather, it was in the colour of her scales, which glinted in patches at her neck and under her sleeves. Brilliant, shining gold. The hilt of a decorative sword. Her Master held out his hand to John with an easy smile.

 

“Murray. Bill Murray. As you can probably tell from my accent, I'm American.” He laughed then, and it was a warm, pleasant sound. John found himself relaxing to it immediately, a small smile finding his lips as he caught the man's grip in his own and shook. Murray then pointed to the dazzling creature by his side.

“This is Rin. Short for Riyaldwyn. You're a newbie, aren't you? New to all of this?”

 

John nodded slowly, ignoring the crawling feeling of mistrust he felt coming from Sherlock in waves as he answered.

 

“John Watson. Yeah, Sherlock and I are new. It's our first year. Didn't really know what to expect.”

 

The man across from him smiled knowingly, green eyes shimmering. Quick as a flash, he turned the crook of John's arm outwards, pointing at the beginnings of the tattoo sitting there and lowering his voice conspiratorially.

 

“Well for starters, John Watson you might want to hide that. Not that a Bond of this kind is illegal within the troops, but coming from experience, the people of this village don't take too kindly to anything remotely glorifying Dragons.” Bill then gestured to his own arm and winked, the coat he was wearing suddenly coming to make more sense even as John leaned forward to root through his rucksack for his own. Sherlock glared at the Human before him as John shrugged on the offensive article of clothing. Privately, the Dragon enjoyed seeing the mark on his Human's wrist displayed. It had stroked the subtly egotistical and possessive side of his personality, and now he made no secret of his dislike of the two strangers by curling closer to John's side, rumbling a soft but unmistakable growl.

 

John poked him in the shoulder, apologising quickly.

“Sorry, he's a might possessive. Doesn't like strangers either, usually.”

 

Bill however didn't seem particularly perturbed. He smiled gently at Sherlock before he held out his hand again, this time for the Dragon to shake.

Both John and Sherlock jumped when Bill's voice spoke to them inside their heads.

 

_Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock. A Northern Dragon's something not many have the honour of getting to see._

 

John tried his best to stifle a small smirk as Sherlock's growls faded away to a slightly confused snort. Appealing to the creature's ego was always a good way to go, and John's new friend seemed to know this as he continued to stroke the Dragon's pride.

 

_That's a lovely Bond Tattoo by the way. Almost as pretty as my Rin's. Then again, I'm a might biased on that one, for obvious reasons._

 

Sherlock huffed, after a moment of hesitation allowed his to hand be shook in greeting. His manners were stiff and awkward, but although he showed discomfort John saw that within the Dragon there was no appearance of fear. John felt his chest swell in something dangerously akin to pride.

 

 _ **The honour is mine, My Lord.**_ Sherlock replied dutifully, the memory of John's sharp caution to _behave_ still lingering within his mind. Though politeness did not come easily to him, Bill seemed to appreciate Sherlock's effort. His freckled face scrunched into a grin, and from it Sherlock deduced within seconds several things.

 

However he kept his thoughts silent when he caught the look John gave him.

 

Some things after all were better left unsaid.

Out loud, Bill spoke.

“Yeah I'm a _**Thrall**_ too, signed up for the army actually because I was scouted over it. This is my third tour. I'm an old pro by this point.” He chuckled good-naturedly, and John lit up with excitement as he asked

“Then you know about Kandahar?” To which his new friend leaned back and nodded thoughtfully. Beside him, Rin stirred, speaking for the first time with soft amusement from were she was seated.

 

“My Lord is too modest. His first year, he nearly got us arrested for 'exploring' outside the compound within this very village. He might have been shot, if I weren't so indestructible and if the people of this country weren't so inclined to train their children as gunmen.” She said the last part with slight edge, slitted eyes narrowing as she blew smoke from between her lips with the memory. Her Master laughed, curling an arm easily about her shoulder. John watched in amazement as Rin, much like Sherlock, seemed to lean into his touch. There was a warmth there that John truthfully hadn't seen in many other pairs yet within the truck. He looked out of the corner of his eye, confirming his earlier observations.

 

Most of the Dragons looked beaten into submission. They stared at the floor or at their laps, and their eyes looked distant and lifeless. Most of the Humans looked as if they already hadn't slept in weeks, stressed and tired. Threads being pulled taught to their breaking point. John was suddenly aware of how unprepared he was, how little he knew about the political situation. Truthfully, he hadn't actually practised firing a gun in weeks, and God only knew what was going to be expected of him at the compound. He suddenly felt the chafing pressure to get information, the urgent desire to learn more. It was an oppressive weight, one that seized him in the chest and caused Sherlock to shift minutely at his side. Inside his head, his Dragon attempted to soothe his fear.

 

_**If it helps, I know for a fact that our driver is not part of the Draski Resistance. Also, the man beside us is having an affair with three other people. None of them know who his daughter actually belongs to.** _

 

John had to bite back a rather scathing reply about just how _not helpful_ Sherlock's deductions were in relieving his frustration. He put his head in his hands and sighed, looking at the older soldier with a pleading sort of face. He suddenly felt utterly out of his depth.

 

Bill caught his gaze and smiled knowingly, seeming to understand the young man's fear. His voice was hushed and calm.

 

“Steady now. We've only just started. No need to panic yet.”

 

And the man fished in his pockets until he produced something, holding it out to John. After a moment, the blond soldier felt it drop into his palm. Unexpectedly, it turned out to be a round rubber stress ball. Murray curled John's fingers over the small toy, producing another from his pocket and tossing it to Sherlock. He then took out his own, turning it over in his hands.

 

“The best advice I can give you boys?” Murray said, and rolled the sphere between his fingers methodically. To John's surprise the next instant the soldier bounced the ball on the floor of the truck, catching it in one hand with a wide and roguish grin. His voice however held weight behind it, the kind that John latched onto, and couldn't help but trust. He found he liked Bill Murray.

 

“Try not to let the seriousness of this place drag you to a place of no return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, a stupendous writer named superwhofuck_withyoutubers has written a spectacular story based off of this one! :3 here is the link:
> 
> beta [ A Dragon's Enemy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1146083%22%22) for her lovely work!


	17. Mary Morstan and Sebastian Wilkes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first day on the complex! :) This chapter will later be edited by Neverwhere, a fantastic beta as always! :D mild warning for slightly triggering things in the chapter ahead.

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

_**Mating and The Sex Slave Trade (World Issues):** Unlike Humans, Dragons cannot procreate outside of a certain time every year. Due to this, the number of Dragons born every year is much lower than that of many other species on Earth. However some countries have exploited this and used trafficking and other various methods in which to capture Dragons and sell them into sexual slavery (see page 764 part C for more information). This has lead to issues with rape, domestic violence as well as a host of other issues within much of the world, including but not limited to: Europe, the United States, Canada and parts of Asia. Though protests have been made to enforce stricter repercussions upon such issues, it is extremely difficult to do so, as within the UK it is not strictly seen as illegal. Some precautions have been put into place (ie. A Dragon cannot be forced into sexual acts by someone other than their Master) yet still there are more than 300 Dragon deaths over half a year related to sexual crimes. This issue does not just affect  Dragons, but Humans as well. An injured Dragon is dangerous, and ones that have suffered under such horrendous crimes have been known to lash out without thinking._

 

 

John was woken the first morning by the sharp cry of the morning roll call, piercing through his veil of sleep and jerking him from his narrow cot with a yelp. He would have rolled off of the bed, if it hadn't been for a long and prehensile tail that lashed out to curl about his middle protectively. From the top bunk, Sherlock's rumbling voice hummed through the young soldier's head.

 

_**First day on the job, John. Wouldn't want to break your neck falling out of bed.** _

 

_Imagine what Mike's laughter would sound like._

 

John agreed, even as he wormed his way out from the hold on him and reached for his rucksack of clothes.

 

Most of the men who had done this before were already awake, Bill folding his night shirt and pants together even as he shook the water out of his curled hair. He grinned at both Dragon and soldier when he noticed they were awake, buttoning up the long-sleeved undershirt of his uniform and covering the tanned expanse of his freckled chest as he spoke. John caught a flash of bright blue and red flame just brushing the man's clavicle as a tattoo before it was hidden from sight.

“Rise and shine, ladies. Got a big day ahead, and I still need to meet Rin up by the girl's quarters.”

 

John blinked in surprise, only just now noticing that his new friend's partner in crime was conspicuously absent. Of course Humans had the choice to send their Dragons to their properly gendered quarters, but the truth of the matter was it was a rule that was rather overlooked and not enforced.The proof of John's suspicions were proven when his other bunkmates, Patrick Lark and his Dragon Lorelei sleepily moved from their cot. Lorelei was topless, and John's ears burned as he rather suddenly didn't know where to look. However the dark-eyed Dragon didn't seem particularly perturbed by his embarassment, and rose to reveal the rest of her was bare as well, the gold and jade swirl of Chinese scales tumbling down the small of her back. She followed her Master without so much as a glance towards the small group, letting him lead her into the showers.

 

Bill rolled his eyes.

“If he thinks his Dragon's going to have time for that later on, he's mistaken. The Chinese are _always_ needed in the med bay, even their presence brings good luck and healing.”

 

John worked to get his cheeks to stop burning, even as he noticed how Sherlock was studiously silent over the course of the exchange. The Dragon's thoughts were low, and it took the soldier a moment to realised it was laced with barely-suppressed rage.

 

_**Won't matter. Humans in the end are always demanding two things: A warm mouth and protection.** _

 

_Careful, mate. Just because you're not speaking aloud, doesn't mean someone's not listening._

 

Bill didn't look up from his folding of clothes as he spoke, but his voice held an edge of caution. His green eyes burned under his fringe of dark hair. John wordlessly reached out once to stroke the edge of one of Sherlock's wings, watching as they turned a dark and unreadable blue.

 

_Come on, Sherlock. I'll go shower first, and leave the cold water for you._

 

And it wasn't until the minute tension in Sherlock's spine relaxed, that John realised the Dragon's fear. That for a moment, he wondered if John would do the same to him as Patrick was doing right then to his Dragon, rather loudly in the stalls outside. As the Dragon relaxed under John's hand, the soldier noticed how the tingling from the tattoo on his arm seemed to grow to curl over his elbow.

 

****

They were lined up in tight rows, shoulder to shoulder with their Dragons aligned behind them. John could feel Sherlock's breath tickling the back of his neck, cool compared to the heat that was already starting to build as the sun rose on the horizon. Sleep tugged at him still, despite the fact that he managed to get a warmer shower and had wiped away the worst of his morning breath with a toothbrush. He felt as if he was already swaying on his feet, and only the knowledge that it would be exceptionally not on to collapse into a dream-induced slumber in the middle of roll call and training kept John on his toes.

 

If Sherlock was tired, he didn't much show it. Instead those light blue eyes looked out sharply from his frame of raven curls, cut short once again the other night so that his ears stuck out rather awkwardly. They swept their gaze over the other Dragons that also stood at attention behind their Masters, noting and mentally calculating each of their strengths and weaknesses.

 

There were only two other Northerns in the entirety of the line-up. Not uncommon, but the fact that Sherlock had never met another of his kind made him wish he had a better view of them. One had short-cropped brown hair, as dark as Sherlock's own, and his eyes were leaning more towards ocean than ice-blue. The other was a woman, dark brown hair swept high onto her head into a bun. The way she stood at once seemed to imply relaxedness, but Sherlock wasn't fooled for even an instant. Her eyes were just as focused as his were, pinpointing on weak spots and physical flaws with the ease of an assassin. Sherlock's eyes narrowed minutely from underneath his lowered lashes. As if sensing his glare the strange Dragon's crimson lips turned up into a knowing smirk.

 

She didn't turn to look at him.

 

Standing in front of the rows of men, women and Dragons were twelve soldiers, lined in a 'V' formation with an imposing figure standing at its centre. He was tall but not overly so, with close-cropped brown hair swept partially to the side. However the way in which he held himself made him appear much taller, and his sharp-toothed grin sent a decided stir through the ranks even as he introduced himself by barking a greeting at the crowd.

 

“Welcome rookies and soldiers, one and all! You've finally made it after months of hard and long training, some of you even years. Congratulations are in order.” A stiff chuckle of appreciation ran through the ranks, muttering to one another in acknowledgement of the work they've gone through so far. John felt his jaw clench, his hands tightening into determined fists. He had come this far, there was no turning back now at this point. All that was left was his practical training. Coming home, he could be the doctor he always wanted, and would never have to look back at the desert that stretched out before them. He told himself that he was doing this just because he could get home more quickly this way, not because when congratulated John felt the thrum of adrenaline fill his blood with a high that made his bones sing.

 

As if sensing his friend's suppressed excitement, Sherlock's wings twitched firework-green. The man continued, gaze sweeping over the crowd of soldiers critically even as he stepped forward, voice pitching itself with long-earned ease so that everyone could hear him without the slightest of problem.

“My name is Colonel Sebastian Wilkes, and you will address me as Colonel Wilkes. Easy stuff to remember, but any intentional disrespect will get you laps around the compound.”

 

He chuckled then, and it sounded like a car back-firing. Loud and short and piercing. John could feel Sherlock's breath on the back of his neck, and noted how it cooled the nervous sweat already collecting on his skin. He resisted the urge to shiver.

“Now, before we divide you into teams and assign you each a captain to lead your squad, there are some rules and regulations that you need to be informed of. Do not forget them, there's no note-taking and I _will not_ repeat myself.”

 

Colonel Wilkes sharpened his stare, coming closer so that he stood in front of Bill, a few feet away from John and Sherlock. John noted how his friend stared perfectly straight ahead, slightly down so as to not challenge the higher ranking officer, spine stick-stiff and hands at his side. The perfect model of a soldier. Wilkes' voice held in it surprise, as well as a touch of something else that made John swallow and feel a small flash of unease.

 

“I've seen you in these parts before. Lieutenant Murray, correct?”

 

“Yes, sir.” Bill answered clearly, finally looking at the man head-on now that he was being addressed directly. John watched as his friend did not seem intimidated by Sebastian's controlling stance, holding his ground steadily and not flinching even when Wilkes sized him up with his eyes. The Colonel's voice was almost drawling as those brown eyes flicked over to Rin behind the man. John noted that though Bill remained remarkably relaxed, there was a small tightening of the interlocking of his teeth when his superior's attention was drawn away from him and towards his Dragon.

 

“I remember you. Take orders well, smart too. Not afraid to throw your weight around. Dragon's well-trained too.” John only heard the next part because he was straining to listen, head ducked down as Sebastian leaned forward and purred into his friend's ear

“ _Always wondered if she took orders even half as well in bed.”_

 

Bill didn't react. Rather, he kept the same carefully blank expression on his face, hands remaining unclenched at his sides. He answered between decidedly clenched teeth, ice creeping into his tone despite the fact that he remained rather composed.

 

“I wouldn't know, sir. Rin isn't one to exactly lie with dogs.” His green eyes then fixed directly on Sebastian's face, carefully bland and neutral. However the meaning was clear, read in the lines of tension in Bill's shoulders and Wilkes' smile slowly detracting ever so slightly. His eyes hardened to something pushing, testosterone-driven as he plastered that oily grin back into place with a modicum of effort.

 

“It's good we have an experienced soldier, you can help me with the little instruction course. You and your Dragon, mind.”

 

It was an order, thinly veiled by politeness and a harlequin front of intimidation. John could see anger in his friend's features, but Bill's face was also a shade whiter than usual. As if sensing his triumph, Wilkes' sneered his orders loudly enough for the group to overhear.

 

“Unless you think you're too _good_ to help out with the lower ranks, Lieutenant?”

 

John had been so absorbed in watching the entire event take place, he had almost forgotten that Mike was just a body away from him in the rows. Wilkes spun when Bill's answer was silence, pointing out Molly and her Master unerringly and causing both of them to freeze like twin deer caught between headlights. John felt the crawling sensation of unease turn into full-blown anger. His hands tightened to fists, and he tried to step between the Colonel's pointing finger and Mike. However he was held back by a cold hand wrapping itself firmly about his bicep. Sherlock's voice muttered lowly in his head.

 

_**John, stop. Think before you act.** _

 

_Whatever he's doing is not right, I can feel it. Molly's shaking!_

 

_**I know. But look-** _

 

And Dragon and soldier both saw how something snapped in Bill's eyes like the leap of flame over cold logs, and how behind him Rin's eyes glowed with a challenging burn. Wilkes' head was turned towards Mike and Molly, but his body was still twisted in Bill's direction.

It was an obvious ploy, but it had no choice but to work.

Molly was trembling like a leaf.

 

“Fine then, you two will do just fine for such purposes-”

 

“ _We'll do it!”_ Bill sighed, stepping forward and tilting his chin up in defiance even as he complied to Wilkes' order. John was not relieved. He could tell that whatever was to come didn't sit well with his friend, and that he had seen something like it before judging by how reluctantly he'd complied to the request. John found himself only being soothed by Sherlock's quiet analysis of the Colonel before them, thoughts flitting to and fro with an impressive degree of efficiency.

 

_**Around early thirties, worked his way through the ranks partly out of skill and partly because he's from money. Family owns companies in.... three? No, five districts in total, an only child so he's never had to work for anything in his life. Used to being in control, has a power complex... Has a dubious conduct record but it's been overlooked due to his parent's influence.** _

 

The deductions continued to more mundane things, such as the fact that the man owned a dog and had once gotten into trouble in his teens from a pregnancy scare with a girlfriend in uni. However all of that in John's mind faded as Bill stepped forward reluctantly, heels dragging even as beside him Rin followed with unquestioning compliance. It looked like the man was facing his execution.

 

Soundlessly, Bill stood before the line-up, eyes grim and flinty.

 

Sebastian Wilkes was back to smiling and orders.

“Ah. Excellent. Always lovely to have a volunteer. Now, here within the compound, many of you might have expected to go into battle right away. However-”

 

And Wilkes' snapped sharply, one of the soldiers that had been lined up behind him peeling away from the crowd like a wolf breaching its pack. John saw at once that the man that slunk to Wilkes was no man at all, but a rather aggressive-looking and battle-scarred Chinese. The Dragon though not tall spoke of a finely-tuned weapon in as much as posture as deeds, as when Sebastian snapped again the creature sank to their knees without hesitation. Sebastian's fingers worked their way through the Dragon's short black hair in a claiming way, looking at the troops with a challengingly arched brow as he said

 

“Most of your training on the compound will be learning to work together as a unit. More importantly, it'll be learning how to discipline your _livestock._ ” John felt a hot iron settle in his stomach when Wilkes' hand dropped to tighten possessively about his Dragon's collar. The leather and metal looked choking, and yet the Dragon didn't raise protest. Like a rag-doll, the creature was calm and complacent. They made no noise, and behind him, Sherlock let out a barely-audible hiss of disgust and fierce fury.

 

_**He's from an eastern slave trade. His tongue's been cut out...** _

 

“Know that your Dragon's behaviour reflects on _you_ , and that if you coddle your weapon, then you'll end up with a dull blade. Case point-”

 

Wilkes turned, and revealed in his hand was a silver remote. John felt Sherlock stiffen behind him, and noticed how many of the Dragons about him ducked their heads that much lower. The smell of hatred and fear was wild and feral in his nose. As a _**Thrall**_ _,_ John felt it that much more. He grit his teeth against the clamouring buzz in the back of his mind, the sound of many creatures universally upset and communicating with one another as one mind. John was a single thought of discontent amongst a sea of distress.

 

Wilkes' gaze was sharp as he looked at Bill with an expression of smugness and bullying cruelty.

“Last time he was posted here, our Bill didn't approve of physical punishment towards his Dragon. He thought her something 'special', exempt from the rules. Mr. Murray, care to show everyone the result of such foolish thinking?”

 

A vein jumped in Bill's jaw, and his voice held in it the beginning of an objection.

“The only reason it happened was because Rin was injured and frightened, she meant-”

 

His sentence caught off with a cry as Wilkes' Dragon suddenly shrieked and curled to the ground, gripping his neck with a roar of pain that near deafened John from where he stood. Bill shouted, and on instinct John made to lunge forward- Only to be dragged back into place by Sherlock's impossibly strong grip. Holding John discreetly by his wrists, the Dragon's voice hissed in John's ear.

 

_**There is nothing you can do! Stay still before you get us both into trouble!** _

 

Wilkes wore an expression of almost boredom on his face, and his tone was dry even as he held down the button to the silver remote and watched in faint interest as his Dragon writhed and whined through his clenched teeth.

“Though I cannot harm your Dragon without provocation, Murray, I think you'll find I don't have to. It's always been in his nature, rookies, don't forget it next time you need a favour from him. Murray here can't stand to watch anyone be in pain.”

His tone was mocking.

 

“Poor soldier, really.”

 

Bill was openly baring his teeth now, and his green eyes were flat with hatred. “There was a time when you _took orders_ from _me._ ”

His hiss of accusation made Wilkes' gaze turn to steel. His voice was immovable. His voice was solid and filled with open irritation.

“And those times are _gone._ ”

 

They stood in a silent face-off in front of the troops then, glaring hotly at one another with ill-concealed malice that John hadn't seen the likes of quite before. True Wilkes was obviously an arse (and a cruel one at that) but it was strange to see Bill's features twisted into such an expression of _hatred._ Like he'd gladly throttle his superior without a second thought. Worse, was their Dragons. Rin stood stock-still, but her eyes were watching closely for the slightest sign of movement. Even a moment's instinct to attack. In contrast, Wilkes' Dragon still lay coiled upon the ground. Rumbling growls emanated from the lump, like it was in great pain. Part of John wanted to look the Dragon over, the other part was wary of the wickedly-sharp teeth he could see even from where he stood.

Just when it seemed either Murray or the Colonel would spring to attack, there was an impatient sigh from the back of the line. Wilkes' head snapped reflectively about, and consequently so did everyone else's. John watched as the man's face turned from red with rage to pale with dread.

 

The voice was that of a woman's. Sharp and impatient over the frozen lines of the troops.

“Honestly, Wilkes? Starting trouble on the first day?”

 

Sebastian seemed to splutter, decreasing in size and stature even as the soldiers lined up cleared room to make way for-somewhat surprisingly, a petite blonde woman. She stood apart from the others in both attitude as well as appearance, flaxen hair cut short to her ears, blue eyes sparkling in a way that didn't seem to within the military mentality. They were the colour of sapphire's, and lit up when she smiled at Bill and greeted him as if he were an old friend. Murray didn't dare relax, shoulders still hunched against unseen attack as he eyed Wilkes with mistrust. John didn't blame him- the man looked fit to commit homicide.

 

“Brigadier Morstan... To what do we owe the pleasure of your appearance on the first day of training?”

Despite his obvious distress, it was apparent the Colonel seemed determined to appear as unfazed as possible. His posture was ramrod straight, but still he didn't seem to be able to touch the nearly poignant presence the woman brought with her as she walked, head held high to the centre of the 'V' formation to rather symbolically, stand in Sebastian's place. John despite his fear, felt a small smile grace his features. There was something about the woman, something guilelessly powerful and solid as she took charge of the situation and brought soothing water to a burn. Like a calm after a storm she immediately drained the tension from the situation, walking over to help Sebastian's Dragon to his feet even while shooting Wilkes a barely-noticeable glare.

Her voice was tart.

 

“Colonel Wilkes I'm sure mentioned of course to the new recruits that they are not to abuse their Dragon's collars except in dire circumstances?”

 

The crowd's silence was heavy and uncomfortable. Someone (Mike) whispered under their breath _“Busted.”_

 

Brigadier Morstan looked at Sebastian the way one might look at a child, her expression long-suffering even as she turned to Bill and addressed him with an apology.

“It is unfortunate that your second posting here has not begun with a good start, Lieutenant Murray. Last I heard you were being posted in Taiwan.”

 

Bill's shoulders relaxed minutely upon being addressed directly, gaze cooling from emerald to chartreuse.

“Was there for a while, base got taken down though. Too dangerous now. Though it makes sense why you wouldn't know, information's always hard to travel 'round these parts.”

 

Morstan smiled, and to John her smile was like a spark of sunshine. He found himself rather ridiculously warm, and he wasn't quite sure why. Sure, he had his fair share of crushes and infatuations over the course of his life, but he had never quite been so... captured by a face before. John wasn't sure if it was because Brigadier Morstan seemed so calm in the face of a one hundred and eighty pound man, or the fact that she seemed so completely at home in the desert as she spun on her heel to address the new troop.

 

“Let me make this perfectly clear: Though the discipline of your Dragon is your duty, you must be made aware that others are allowed to give your Dragon orders if you are considered incapable of doing so. This is a unit, we are an army, but more than that, we're a brotherhood. A bonded group. I will not have fighting within our own troops, so any petty arguments you have-” Her gaze flicked to both Bill and Wilkes meaningfully “Are to be disregarded and forgiven, at least for the extent of your posting here. If I catch any physical confrontations during the times I do inspections, you will be suffering more from just laps around the compound. You are all grown adults, and should know how to treat each other with respect by now. You've made it this far as Wilkes has said, it means you must be good for something.”

 

John noted how the soldiers around him seemed to straighten, the authority heavy in the woman's voice. He couldn't help it, he found himself lowering his shoulders and lifting his chin in pride.

 

Sherlock's rather unamused rumble however startled John from his reverie.

 

_**Honestly, Human males. Can only think with one head at a time it seems.** _

His voice was disapproving, hinting just on the other side of jealous. John felt his mouth drop open in surprise. However he didn't have time to reflect on it, as he suddenly found his attention drawn by what Morstan was saying.

 

“Your Dragon is required to take care of your needs, but they are also required to care for the needs of others. However, the line is drawn in two counts: sexual gratification and situations in battle.” The Brigadier's gaze turned a shade alike to gunmetal.

 

“If you wish to have a Dragon bed you that you do not own, you must ask for permission from its Master. As well in battle, a Dragon's duty is to its owner and the team its assigned to. Any breaking of these rules _will_ be met with harsh consequences. Demotion, if not dismissal from your post.”

 

John felt a chill run down his spine. He could feel rather than hear Sherlock's coiling panic, carefully tamped down with anger.

 

It looked like the soldier's promise to him to ask instead of order things from him, might not protect the Dragon after all.


	18. The Fire Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So sorry I've been late with updates! All of my stories have been on pause as of late due to.... well work and the fact that I lately haven't been really feeling up to writing ^.^'' 
> 
> This chapter is unedited as a result, so if you do see any errors, do not hesitate to let me know! :3 also yay plot! :3

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Ochelia (Language):** _The term **Ochelia** is a complicated and often confusing term to fully understand within the Human tongue.  It refers to an intimacy just shy of the romantic within Dragon culture, and it is said that a Dragon in their lifetime will only deign to call a few select people with such affection. An  **Ochelia** is a partner, in the older Tongue deriving from a "Battle-brethren" and is used to describe a relationship that is thicker and more closely-knit than perhaps even sibling relations. If two Dragons form an **Ochelia** friendship, then it means that they have sworn to protect one another with their lives. Moreover, it means that they have sworn to also protect each other's horde's as well as each other's families. It is a relationship built from implicit trust, and the term is not used lightly within Dragon culture. The closest term that one may be able to use to describe an  **Ochelia** relationship would be "A friendship in the deepest sense for life". (See page 576 for more information on "Words that do not translate into Human-Tongue well")_

 

 

 

Running was hard. Blisteringly so. Though John had never been what could be considered a “fast” runner, he didn't think he was exactly a snail. However with the army it wasn't about speed, it was about endurance as much as anything else, and he was beginning to feel the burn in his calves and the sweat pooling in the small of his back as he gasped, trying his best to regulate his breathing. It didn't help that already the sun was midway into the sky, beating down on him and the other soldiers so that the very sand beneath them seemed to pant and beg for relief. The sky was the kind of blue that came only with intense, dry, suffocating temperatures, and the arid sand wound its way about the long line of soldiers, sinking into the very fabric of their clothes.

 

It had been nearly a week since they made it to the compound. John was to meet his squad today, and the prospect had uncertain knots tying themselves into his stomach. After Wilkes' confrontation, Brigadier Morstan had decided to put it off for the week, in order to give everyone more time to “get to know one another”. However it seemed that John had hardly gotten to know _anyone_ , as the army's idea of “bonding” tended to be “work each other to the ground so that we're forced to interact or we'll be left behind”. As a result, he knew exactly how far each of the soldiers could run, knew what they ate and what their habits were. Yet he couldn't say to save his life who had family, who had someone waiting for them at home. He couldn't say for certain who had siblings, or who cried themselves to sleep at night.

And still again and again, John found himself knowing human beings less and less, and Dragons, more and more.

The Book was hidden under his mattress, a dangerous window to an entire world that John had before only scratched the surface of. Like an addictive drug, he found that late at night his tired eyelids would peel themselves awake, forcing himself to read just one more chapter, just one more paragraph, just one more line. The very _idea_ of such a creature, the very _fact_ that such a creature was curled underneath his bunk, John found the little boy inside of himself that he had long ago discarded was all but jumping with glee.

 

Though truthfully, he wouldn't jump. He'd likely collapse, with the way his thighs were _aching._

 

The entire time, John found himself wondering why he hadn't realised sooner just how _hot_ a bloody _desert_ could get, trekking through the under-brush of Afghanistan.

Yet it was the only time outside of missions that any of the soldiers were permitted off compound without previous notification, and as a result the soldier couldn't bring himself to quite mind it, even if he went to bed with blisters along his feet and an ache in the base of his spine.

 

Sherlock fared only slightly better.

The Dragon was stronger, physically at least. Like the rest of his kin, Sherlock took to running with grace and ease, his lithe form well-suited to all forms of exercise. However unlike his Chinese or English cousins, John noticed that the Dragon was quicker to tire, prone to headaches, and by the end of the day was flushed and irritable and grumpy. Sherlock had been reluctant at first to make a nuisance of himself, his own past mandating that he not utter a word of complaint if he was not immediately dying. However when John caught the Dragon nearly tottering over at the end of one particularly hot day, his wings seasick-green and quivering, not even Sherlock could deny he was in pain.

 

A Northern Dragon was simply not designed to endure such heat.

 

So, ignoring his friend's protests and growled insults (the likes of which were so colourful they made Bill's eyebrows rise in amusement and Rin smirk from behind the veil of her hair) John dragged Sherlock to the nurse, attempting to find some way in which he could avoid having his partner continually on the precipice of heatstroke.

 

The medical tent was a large, tan thing, sitting in the centre of the compound with the kind of finality that came from being a place of importance. Soldiers and medics circulated to and fro from it, and although John hadn't as of yet had to go to where his future job would be, he felt an instant connection with the humming atmosphere of the place that sang in his blood. It was like an unspoken song that was being chanted just under everyone's breath, and soon John realised why.

 

The majority of the medics had Chinese Dragons for assistants. It wasn't a _song_ John was hearing like a drone, itching just under his skin, but _Magic._

The Magic of healers.

 

It glowed soft gold around everything it touched, like the pixie dust that Harriet had used to love so much in her precious copies of _Peter Pan,_ like bronze sand settling along the wrapped limbs and muscles of the soldiers lying on the cots inside, coming to cling to John as if magnetized to his heat signature. It lingered in his hair, dusted his knees and legs, and Sherlock's blue eyes turned positively silver in the glow that hummed in the magic like honey, sugar-sweet and pure.

 

They were approached by a nurse in military garb, the glint of her collar giving away her rank even as she greeted them with a timid sort of bow. Her wave of dark hair was expertly pinned back, twisted into elaborate braids that were still professional even while being beautiful. The Dragon's almond-shaped eyes were dark like the colour of midnight, filled with distance and calm. Thankfully, her tongue was not cut, though she bore the bearing of a breed from the Asian slave trade.

“Greetings, My Lords. I am Soo Lin. What is the nature of your injuries today?”

 

Against Sherlock's mental grumblings, John put on his most placating smile and gestured towards his partner.

“I'm John Watson and this is Sherlock. My Dragon's been ill lately, heatstroke because of his breed. I was wondering if there's anything that can be done to help alleviate some of his... suffering.”

Soo Lin did not look particularly surprised at the diagnosis, dark eyes flicking delicately over to the Northern's glowering form. She didn't flinch from Sherlock's heated glare, but she was careful not to step within his personal space even as she gestured for the two soldiers to follow.

 

“Right this way, my Master Andy might know of a way to help without the use of Magical means.”

 

When she turned her back to them, John caught a flash of the Dragon's scales, creeping up along the bared skin of her neck. The colour was vivid, aqua blue. The inside of a peacock's feather.

 

Soo Lin's Master was called Andy Blake, a freckle-faced boy that would look wet about the ears if it wasn't for how steadily he held a scalpel in his hand as he lifted his head and greeted his Dragon. When he caught sight of John, the tentative smile broke out into a grin, and his voice was easy and kind even as he set down the sharp implement in his hand and turned to the sink to wash the dirt and grime from his arms.

 

“One of the newbies I see! Medical ward too? I recognise your face from the profiles given to me. What's the name... Watson?”

John clasped hands with the man, smiling politely even as Sherlock huffed under his breath and looked down at his feet. There was a low flush of anger heating his cheeks, annoyance evident by the twitching along the curvature of his wingspan.

 

“Yeah, Sherlock's here managed to nearly faint a few times on patrol, so I decided enough was enough and that it was time to check this place out.”

 

Andy nodded with a small smirk of approval, tilting his shoulders in a shrug.

“Would've had to come here in a few days anyway, being a medic and all. I'm in charge this shift, if you need something, don't be afraid to ask.” He turned to Sherlock then, silently sizing up the Dragon's form for a moment before he got to his diagnosis.

“Looks like a simple case of heatstroke, it'd be pretty normal considering his species. I take it he hoards the cold water in the evenings?”

 

John chuckled, nodding his ascent even as beside him Sherlock flicked his tail in flat disapproval. The colour of the creature's scales was a sulky sort of grey, like a storm-cloud.

“Yeah he does. Doesn't even charge to the mess hall like the rest of us, just dives towards the showers and soaks for as long as he can. Not that I blame him.”

 

Andy seemed to consider something for a moment, dark brown eyes glinting in brief thought before he clapped his hands together and rubbed them.

“Okay. I can get for Sherlock what's called _'coolant packs'._ Essentially they are packets with a gel in them that immediately perform cooling action when they're squeezed or the gel is moved around inside of them. If he straps them to his chest, his core will remained colder longer. Common practice for Northerns, but you have to ask for them to be issued out since the government never encourages anything useful, you know how it is. In the meantime though John, I have a patient in the back that's suffering something awful from a broken collar-bone. We patched it up but he's still complaining, and being a _**Thrall**_ I think you might stand a better chance of getting through to him. Would you be willing to give it a go?”

 

Blinking in surprise, John shuffled somewhat subconsciously.

“I don't have any of my own supplies with me, if I need to do anything...”

 

“Take Soo Lin. We'll swap Dragons for a bit so I can check out Sherlock's heart and his fluid intake to make sure it hasn't been strained with the heat, and you can have an assistant that knows where everything is.”

 

Sherlock's immediate bristle was sharp and edged, his eyes turning to menacing slits before John hastily tried to calm him with soothing thoughts.

 

_Easy, Sherlock. It's just going to be for a couple of minutes. Nothing to worry about._

 

In response, the Dragon's lips peeled back so that a low growl of discontent rumbled throughout the tent, and several doctors and patients alike looked up in curiosity and mild trepidation when they saw Sherlock's imposing frame poised for battle. The sound was dry, like two scales rasping together. Snake-like and menacing.

 

John however was unimpressed.

He rather roughly cut off Sherlock's vocal attempt to show his displeasure by nudging the Dragon in the side, scowling and sending a mental plea of _behave_ through their link even as Soo Lin determinedly at the floor, lips twitching free from their usual resolve before smoothing over once more. Andy, seeming to understand that Sherlock was ill at ease, offered a small truce.

 

“We can check you out in the same room as the other Dragon. Provided of course that you do not... antagonize the other patients too much. As you probably know, Dragons tend to make... irritable patients at best.”

 

Sherlock's glare didn't lessen, but the colour of his scales cooled to a stoic light blue before he nodded once, crisply. His eyes fell back to the floor in the customary way, and his voice though edged with discontent offered a backhanded apology.

“I suppose my Lord if that is the best you can do... I must take you up on your kindness.”

 

John chose not to comment on how Sherlock's cold tail twisted itself possessively about his wrist. Soo Lin's smile was gracious as much as it was relieved.

“Right this way, my Lords.” She murmured, extending a delicate arm for them to follow. The silver-blue shimmer of her scales winked with the movement. Stars dancing seemingly just under the veins of her golden skin. For just a moment, John felt himself hypnotized by the very shifting nature of their pattern.

 

****

The Dragon that was injured as it turned out was a rather hot-headed English (John thought the pun was necessary and well-intended) and didn't seem to take well to the mollycoddling nature of the nurse attending him. He was dark as a nut, with micah-flecked eyes that were slitted in detestation, and he chafed uncomfortably in his hospital bed even as the rather apologetic-looking nurse hovered over his bandages.

 

John drew nearer just in time to hear the poor girl trying in vain to explain to the Dragon why he couldn't transform into his full form to rest.

“The stitches we put in for the abrasions you suffered around the fracture will tear if you try, and we don't know how the bones will shift with the transformation. I'm sure your Mistress will understand-”

 

As she spoke her hands reached out to brush the bandage, and the Dragon reared back and snarled something emphatically in Dragon-Tongue that made Sherlock pause and grin and Soo-Lin's cheeks to pinken in surprise. The English Dragon rose to his full height, collar clinking with the movement, and in English carefully enunciated despite its foreign accent, he spoke through bared fangs.

"I will not rest until my _Ochelia_ is found and returned. Where is my  _Ochelia?!"_

At the nurses' helpless silence, the fire Dragon huffed smoke through his nose, obviously riled as he glanced about with the nervous air of someone looking desperately for a friendly face. By John's side, Soo Lin murmured softly.

" _Ochelia_ in our language means kin, but it's an extremely vague term. Intimate, but vague. It might be an egg-brother, or just a very close friend. We don't know who he is talking about, and his Mistress doesn't know either. She has said that until now she's never heard the term pass her Dragon's lips."

John could feel the unsettled waves rolling off of the Dragon, tight with unease and distress. It was no doubt in his mind that whoever this Dragon's  _Ochelia_ was, they were someone very close and important to them. However his thoughts of the matter were cut off as the nurse let out a tiny shriek, flinching as the Dragon abruptly stood on his feet and made as if to bolt from the tent (presumably to hunt for his kin). John barely thought before he reached out a mental link, standing in the Dragon's way to keep him from departure even as he wrestled to soothe the creature's unease.

_Please sit. You're going to hurt yourself. I understand you're confused, but please. I am willing to listen, I know no one is listening. I want to help._

 

From across the room, Sherlock stiffened as he saw the English Dragon tower over his Master. A low growl rumbled from his throat, drowning out the palpitations of his heart. Andy sighed, leaning back as he removed the stethoscope from his ears. He kept his voice low and conversational.

"No need to be alarmed. If worse comes to worst, Soo Lin is trained in numerous styles of self-defense. Please do not put undue strain on your body, whether or not you feel it, you're fit to collapse."

 

The Northern Dragon opened his mouth to reply, but what he answered with was drowned out by the faintest of trembling in the wind. Sherlock paused, tilting his head. 

He listened.

 

_**They say they wish to help. But they do not let me go find him. My Ochelia and his children are in danger. They hide and call for my help.** _

The English Dragon paused, but did not succumb to John's placating words, his fists still clenched and his jaw still tight despite the fact that he swayed on his feet in nothing but his pants and the crisp white bandage splayed over his chest. John noted absently that the Dragon's arm should have been in a sling (to alleviate stress on the bone) even as he kept a wide stance, neither threatening nor moving.

_I know. I know you're worried for them and angry. But you are in pain. Whoever this... this **Ochelia** is, they wouldn't want you to go after them injured, would they?_

 

It appeared however that such a thing was the wrong thing to say, as the Dragon's eyes darkened, and his upper lip curled in fury.

**_You question my  honor ?! I would fight a thousand battles while wounded to save my Ochelia. They are my blood, my family. He and my Mistress are all I have to give my name respect, and if I lose him, then I will not be able to look his Hatchlings in the eye._ **

 

_I don't doubt your strength, of course not. Anyone can see that you are strong. A true and magnificent... calamity..._

 

John backpedaled quickly, alarm singing in his bones as the Dragon's skin flushed fire-orange about his sternum, as if lit from within. He chanced a small, self-deprecating smile as he made sure to make his body language as small and mild as possible, keeping his hands at his side and loosely clenched. He knew a few tricks by now, having lived with Sherlock. All Dragon's seemed to like having their egos stroked, and he hoped that if he could keep the Dragon suitably distracted, Soo Lin could get the gentle tranquilizer she was holding behind her back into the patient's arm without difficulty. 

_I am sure you have destroyed countless cities, could destroy countless more. But not if you permanently damage your wings. A Dragon's wings are his pride and joy after all, that much I know._

 

The  Dragon's nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed despite the fact that the glow at his chest seemed to cool minutely. His voice was filled with suspicion and confusion.

 

**_You mock me? Humans do not compliment us. We are slaves. We are nothing to you. Weapons to be broken and thrown away. My Ochelia is lost, and my Mistress lies to protect me. But she does not understand that without what little honor I have, my life is not worth living. It is my fault. Everything in this... it is my fault._ **

 

The Dragon's golden irises clouded then, and his anger soured into something closer to pain. And John felt his chest tighten, and his eyebrows lowered in determination as he whispered aloud.

"No. Never intentionally. I would never... I would never mock someone's pain. Not if I could help it... Nev-"

 

But his assurance was cut off, as suddenly, Soo Lin let out a warning screech from where she had been standing (head tilted, listening, dark eyes widened in growing horror) that made the very carts tremble, the glass and metal tools of the medical trade trembling in their places. 

 

But that wasn't what made John flinch. No. What made the very hair stand up on the back of his neck was the high, keening wail that shook the compound, an alarm shrieking out moments before Andy tensed visibly. His ordered bark of “Air-raid! _Everyone prepare!_ ” Thudded in the soldier's ears.

 

And worse, John found himself quite suddenly tackled to the floor, two tonnes of snarling, furious Sherlock in his full form hovering over him. 

 

That was when the sound of explosions hit the desert like the smattering of paint against pavement and dust filled the air.

 


	19. Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay!
> 
> Please let me know if I've missed anything in terms of spelling! :3
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks so much for all of the lovely kudos and comments, I seriously adore them all so much!
> 
> Edit~ Also, more fantastic fanart done [ here ](http://fullrings.deviantart.com/art/Gravity-is-boring-442767760) by fullrings :3 I love it so much thank you!!!

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**The Sight Spell (Magic):** _The Sight Spell is a type of Magic that at first glance looks easy, but is in reality extremely delicate in nature. Whereas healing spells are relatively simple, the **Sight Spell** is designed to increase the performance of the Dragon's eyes, and is such much like performing open heart surgery. It also requires a fair bit of energy (See page 775 part D for more details on "The Nature of Spells"). It is one of the six spells of "True Clairvoyance" and as such can often only be performed when a Dragon forms a deep bond with a partner, be they Dragon or Human. The idea of the  **Sight Spell** is to increase abilities the Dragon already has, and in order to do so ideally the Dragon will feed off of their partner's energy, protecting them both while the partner gradually becomes weaker. The tricky issue with this spell lies in the fact that it has a time limit. If the partner suffers for too long under the spell, they are likely to suffer from blindness as well as cardiac arrest. It is a spell designed for a quick save, not a long-time harrowing mission. Use and approach with caution. _

 

 

Sherlock's scales were as mottled brown as the dust that filled the air, sand and grime filling John's lungs and vision and causing him to cough blearily. The taste of grit lined the back of his teeth, and a hollow ringing in his ears was the first thing the soldier came to acknowledge as he pried his eyes opened and attempted to see past the mass of scale and wings sheltering him like a sinuous cave.

 

The next was the smoke.

 

Thick and acrid, it filled the air like a grey blanket, setting further haze amid the chaos that John could glimpse past Sherlock's shielding embrace. It was coming from the opening of the tents, not a direct hit then but nearby. John's mind automatically leapt towards the possibility of it hitting the barracks, and his throat tightened with the thought of Mike and Molly and Bill and Rin. Where were they? Did he even know? The thought of something happening to them filled John with a heavy and forceful rush of adrenaline, and he swayed to his feet even while ignoring the wave of nausea that gripped him as the world tilted in front of him. Sherlock's frigid haunch was the only thing that kept him on his feet, and the Dragon's snarling voice rumbled in his pounding head like a clap of thunder. John suppressed a wince, feeling as though the creature's voice was rippling and bending within the confines of his emptied skull.

 

_**John. It's a direct attack to the base. Fire Dragons. They've aimed so far for the barracks. The next will be the water tanks and food supplies. Medical tents if they're low on supplies or have back-up on the way. From the sound.... a group of thirteen.** _

 

The Dragon's muzzle lifted towards the air then, slitted eyes assessing the carnage about them critically. Medics were filing about in precise order and direction, grabbing med packs and their Dragons and running out into the desert-painted war zone or alternatively crouching towards the patients already inside. It was then that John noticed that the patient he had been attending to had curled himself up against the bed he had been sitting on a moment before, eyes gold and brightly burning with fury as a low and feral growl rumbled from his chest. It was the sound of a lion's roar, and it built as the Dragon's tongue, snake-like and suddenly thin and protruding from fanged teeth, hissed in reptilian rage. His chest heaved and glowed with hot coals.

 

“ _I can smell them. The ones who took my Ochelia **.** ”_

 

He fumed, and with his anger smoke blew from his flared nostrils. Sherlock tensed in response, growling a warning just in time before heedless of his collar-bone, the patient transformed.

 

John was pinned to the ground by Sherlock, shielded from the blast of heat that radiated like molten lava, causing the air to shiver with fire. He felt the side of his face heating up with it, not-quite burning. When he blinked, there was a blast of air that blew back his short-cropped hair from his face. When the soldier opened his eyes, there was a ragged hole in the roof of the medic bay.

 

It was then that Andy's voice barked over the din, shouting even as Soo Lin in front of him transformed defensively, imperial-blue scales shimmering as she hissed steam through her muzzle threateningly. The curly-haired soldier was grimly battening down the hatches, closing and locking breakables into one container together, strapping patients down to face whatever monsters he was expecting. His voice did not waver as he made orders easily, and John saw in that moment that the man was likely a Captain.

 

“I want all medics who are not taking care of high-risk patients out on the field. Take a med pack if you don't have yours on you. Weapons are in the back. I want a CO other than me informed that we need back-up.”

 

The man's eyes then flicked to John, and something grimly amused flickered in his irises. His voice called out to him even as he reached, pulling from the pile that was already being depleted by other soldiers a dark green pack. He tossed it at Sherlock's clawed feet with accuracy, shrugging on his own only a moment later. Then he pulled a sand-coloured harness from an overhanging sets of hooks, throwing the first strap onto Soo Lin.

 

It took John only a moment to recognise what the harness was for. He felt his stomach drop out from under him in awe as Andy a moment later mounted his dragon, leg swinging over her serpentine side. The harness, a flight seat- had a bright red cross painted on its front.

A veritable hospital on wings.

 

“First day as a medic, soldier. Time to get some hands-on experience.”

 

And his heels dug gently into Soo Lin's side, and the Dragon took off like a coiled spring, Andy's form clutching to her as effortlessly the Chinese Dragon curled through the hole the English Dragon had left through only a moment before.

 

Had he not been in the middle of a raid, John might have paused to appreciate just how graceful the pair were when in the air.

Like a strange bird unfurling their serpentine body to embrace the sky.

 

****

 

People didn't mention how _loud_ war could be.

 

John had heard of the chaos of it, he had expected it even. The soldiers milling about him, holding their positions against the whirling shadows plunging down like bombs from the sky, the destructive hail of their bullets and screams were things he had known he would be expected to experience. But he hadn't known how a thousand Dragons could _scream_ in unison when they went to battle, hadn't been aware how his _**Thrall**_ abilities would leave him gaping in the eye of a storm. His very _skin_ felt as if it was curling from the rushing in his head, and he swayed in place for a moment as a litany of _fightbloodscreambiteteardefendprotect_ _ **Mine**_ _shield_ _ **FIGHT**_ howled in his head.

 

John hadn't known that a body could _crunch_ until a black-streaked shadow caught another mid-air, ripping the Dragon's Master from their harness so that they fell screaming back to the desert below. Too far away to reach him in time, John could merely watch transfixed, eyes wide as he took in the contorted angle at which the woman's neck was bent. A moment later, her Dragon fell too. Two-tonnes of Chinese Dragon had never been so deadly when it was being hurled as a make-shift javelin towards the ground.

 

Quick as lighting, Sherlock beat his wings, pushing back against the dust-devil that rose about them like a wave with the impact of the fallen soldier. His scales were a clouded and chaotic mix of colours, shifting uneasily in waves. John kept his gun at his side, barely flinching as out of nowhere a shrieking missile came hurtling towards them.

Halfway to the ground, the Dragon morphed into a girl.

 

She landed in the dust in a front-curl, up on her feet in an instant. Darting past Sherlock's much larger form, she brandished claws that glinted blackly from the ends of her humanoid hands. Her eyes were slitted gold against dark skin, and she snarled from behind the mask that kept the sand out of her mouth and her identity hidden. Still, there was no mistaking the height of her frame, the smallness of her limbs. Barely more than a child and yet frothing at the mouth with rage. John found himself ducking as she lunged with inhuman speed, making a slice for his internal organs before whirling like a dancer, ducking to sweep his legs out from under him.

John fell to the ground, hard.

 

He felt his back come into contact with the sand, and then the Dragon was upon him, teeth bared, going in for his jugular. For a moment, John felt as though the only thing he was aware of was his own heart, thudding dully in his ears. He felt those sharp canines, already bared brace against his skin, threatening to puncture like his throat was made of nothing but butter.

 

Then there was a freezing blast, and the Dragon's crushing pinning weight was off of him. John was still for only a moment, but when he rolled onto his side, Sherlock was locked in a fierce battle with a fully transformed English.

 

The Northern Dragon's scales were red with fury, brilliant scarlet even as he spat ice venomously at the enemy beneath him. The tone of them almost matched the strange Dragon's scales, a dark mahogany likening to almost dried blood. Sherlock barely noticed how the heat from the other Dragon was causing his soft underbelly to burn, his fury numbing the pain so that he could overpower her, pin her in place. Keep her from hurting John. His growl came shivering out of him like trembling thunder, and even if his Master couldn't understand Dragon-Tongue, John didn't mistake the thought that rippled through the chaotic bells overlapping his telepathic bond.

 

**_MINE._ **

 

John couldn't stop Sherlock before he made the kill, jaws clamping down on the Dragon's throat and tightening. A sickening _crack_ reverberated through the air, and the struggling English Dragon fell limp underneath the Northern's form. When Sherlock reared away from the body, his muzzle was stained with red. John couldn't suppress the shudder that ran through him as for a moment, he saw the bloodlust of an animal light his Dragon's eyes. But there was no time to reflect on it, for already Sherlock was charging for him, scooping him upwards so that John rested safely in the dip between his shoulder blades. It was cool there, and for a moment some of the rushing noise that filled John's head lessened. The pounding faded a bit into the background, and he managed to grab a hold of his heart which was wildly beating out of control and reign it in. Without realising, his hands were gripping the med pack he had slung onto his back hastily before joining the fray. The white-knuckled grip imprinted the feeling of the rough fabric against his skin. The soldier forced himself to breathe. Focus.

 

Slowly, he tuned in specifically to Sherlock's thoughts. They were half-wild, savage and destructive. Unguided and unleashed without John's influence. The soldier would later apologise for leaving him without direction. Now though, he fought to gain control once more. Underneath his thighs Sherlock's heart pounded loudly enough that he could feel his pulse through him like a wave.

 

_We need to get to the injured, Sherlock. Find them and treat them if we can. Our job is to heal, not defend._

 

In answer, Sherlock's rumbling growl sounded savagely in John's head.

 

_**They are looking for medics to steal supplies from. They'll aim for us first, especially if they notice that you're unarmed and I'm relatively untrained. Defence seems like the best course of action to take.** _

 

_We have orders though. Andy gave them to us. And I won't hide if there's someone who needs my help._

 

John had been many things growing up, but he had never been a coward. Setting his jaw, he gripped one of the spines lining Sherlock's back. Looking around, the soldier found that his vision was being affected by sand. There was dust everywhere, muffling gunshots that rang out, hiding the origins of the screaming that would sound occasionally in the fray. Fire like flickering lightning sometimes flashed, usually followed by a gurgling shriek that John's mind instinctively wanted to shy away from. His voice was firm as aloud he spoke.

“Sherlock, we need to fly.”

 

It was a strange thing, hearing silence for a change come from Sherlock's end. It stretched on for such a long time that John almost considered repeating himself, only as soon as the thought crossed his mind his Dragon growled.

_**Tedious answer. You'll fall if you're untrained and without a harness.** _

 

John flinched as another sickening sound of limbs being torn apart sounded somewhere to his left, and he darted towards the noise before Sherlock could effectively hold him in place with his tail. The Dragon's eyes were calculating as they flicked about, scanning the area. He seemed to be muttering something under his breath, and John caught the tail-end of something in Dragon-Tongue that he didn't understand. The soldier drew himself up, preparing to argue with the stubborn creature just as Sherlock blinked, and his eyes once-slitted were suddenly wide as dinner plates as he murmured

 

_**So far two injured on our side, one to your left and one behind. Right one is closer but less critical. I'm guessing...** _

 

The creature cocked his great muzzle to the side, appearing to listen. John watched in a mixture of fascination and confusion as the Dragon's irises seemed to glow, lost and far away. Eventually, Sherlock huffed in affirmation.

 

_**Right has a fractured rib and possible broken arm, back has taken a clawing to his side.** _

 

 

_How... How in the hell are you doing this?_

 

Instead of replying, Sherlock merely asked John a question. It was filled with hesitance, but lined with a kind of desperation that the soldier hadn't heard before in his friend's tone. Soft.

 

  _ **John... Do you trust me?**_

 

_More than you realise._

 

_**I'm glad... because this Spell wouldn't work if you didn't.** _

 

The Dragon seemed to vibrate in place, wing-tips quivering, and John felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as Magic coursed through his veins, dark and decadent and stronger than ever before. He could feel it, settling in the crook of his arm. Burning but not damaging. Cool to the touch. The soldier leaned into Sherlock's neck, breathing praise into his scales.

 

“That's.... That's Amazing.”

 

And Sherlock's wings tinged a brief and pleased pink right before they turned back to blue, before the Dragon steadily replied.

 

_**Now, John...which way?** _

__


	20. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so late and I apologize so much ^.^''
> 
> Enjoy! trigger warnings for violence and war, as well as implications of dub/noncon and talking of PTSD...

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

_**The Beginnings Of PTSD (Dealing with wars and battle):** It is an unfortunate fact that much of the world today as we know it is at war. As a result, it will not be uncommon for you to meet someone, be they Dragon or Human alike, who suffers or has suffered under the effects of prolonged stress and battle. In Dragons however, the signs of PTSD may not be so easily recognised. Unlike a Human, who will often show signs of trauma through sleeplessness or depression or even self-destructive tendencies, a Dragon will often display signs of PTSD by becoming overbearing in their presence. Dragons are naturally possessive creatures (see page 774 section E for details) and as a result a Dragon suffering from PTSD may feel inclined to become overly protective of their things. Similar to that of a  **Hoarding** affect, said Dragon may also find themselves becoming increasingly dependent on people or other Dragons, a need for a pack-instinct causing them to seek out company. Although this can be a good thing for the Dragon, it may also cause them to suffer if they cannot find that connection. As mentioned earlier in this book, an isolated Dragon is an unhappy one, and the younger the Dragon, the more love and attention it requires. Before the "attachment" phase however, a Dragon will become more doting on people around them. As well, they may suffer from night terrors, as well as restlessness and unease. All of this will naturally affect their Mate's as well as close, personal friends. Be patient, as likely they are just as confused as you may be over what is happening to them. _

 

 

Stitching up people in battle was nothing like trying to stitch up a cadaver or even a patient back home. John knew this, intellectually, but the first time he caused a man to scream as he held pieces of his guts inside of his own body still caused bile to rise in the back of his throat, sweat trickling down his spine. It was the crunching sensation as he bore down, and the taste of his own sweat beading atop his upper lip. Something about it mingled with the harsh cries around him, making his head threaten to spin.

 

Yet the young man had never felt so focused before in his life.

The pounding of his heart was a constant, steady rhythm, and with whatever spell Sherlock seemed to be employing between them, John thought he could almost feel it in his blood. Whether that was good or bad, he didn't know, but it kept him steady. Kept his muscles sure and his breath calm even as he took the beaten comm out of the first aid kit he'd snatched, trying to radio for a stretcher of some kind. At the very least some back-up. So far though, he knew he was likely not getting help for at least another fifteen minutes.

 

Around them battle still raged on, but it had taken a decidedly different tone. The rebels that had ambushed the base had clearly underestimated the numbers needed to attack, hoping to rely on a quick grab-and-take instead of a full fight. More and more bodies that fell from the sky bore no collars and were of foreign colouring, desert-blasted scales having adapted to a different terrain.

 

He tried his best to ignore them as they fell, focusing instead on the soldier before him. John asked the man his name, testing to see if he could speak, and the young soldier beneath his hands coughed up a bloody mixture of bile and spit as he rasped “Francis Barnes.” John did his best to continue using his name soothingly even as he assessed the damage that Dragon claws had done to the man's internal organs, deliberately forcing the man to stay awake by asking him questions even as beneath him the soldier's ribs quivered and shook delicately like his bones were made of robin's eggs.

 

Sherlock for his part, having no healing magic of his own instead took to guarding, attacking enemies that dared to take advantage of an occupied medic with a malicious sort of glee. John until now hadn't really realised just what kind of hunting instincts a Dragon might have, but the few times he chanced a look upwards he found himself shuddering, because it was clear that Sherlock at the very least had no issue with cannibalism if the mood suited him and the opportunity arose. His muzzle was coated red and slick with blood, and he did not hesitate to swallow down a few mouthfuls of flesh if it happened to get caught in his teeth. The sight would have made John feel vaguely nauseous, if he wasn't arms-deep in human entrails, desperately trying to stop the man beneath him from bleeding out.

 

And _God_ , he hoped that didn't become a norm for him, but looking out at the dust and bodies littering the desert like broken toys, he was beginning to see it might.

 

But there was no time to entertain that thought as beneath him, Barnes began to quake. John cursed under his breath, realising the soldier's dark green eyes were starting to slide closed. Fruitlessly he searched in his bag, looking for anything, anything that could stop all the blood from staining the sand, all the gore from painting his skin and leaking out into the thirsty desert-

 

and then his previous call for back-up was there, but it wasn't a medic. It was Dodge and she was pulling him away, getting other nurses to care for the man as they loaded him onto a stretcher. For a moment John fought, the roaring in his ears too loud, the sound of his heartbeat humming-

 

Then Dodge's face melted away, and Sherlock was in front of him. In his Human form, the Dragon looked terrible. His mouth and throat were stained red, and he was looking at John with something akin to worry. Likely because he was saying something, but John couldn't _hear_ because there were too many _voices_ and _thoughts_ shrieking about him-

 

And he blinked and he was suddenly pressing bandages down on a young woman's thigh, stilling bleeding that wasn't nearly as bad as Barnes' had been. He slowly became aware of his own voice, rushing reassurances even as the woman cried out into her Dragon's lap, lips bitten and white as she resisted the snarling pain. The tone of his voice made John realise he had been talking for a long while, only just now recognising the sounds he was making were platitudes.

“It's going to be okay, they didn't nick an artery, the blood's not that bad. We're going to get you patched up again in no time. I promise lieutenant Naird that you will be fine.”

 

John continued his mantra, because he could tell he was right and this time he knew help was coming. How, he wasn't sure. All he could afford to be aware of was the fact that it felt as if hours had passed, and the sense that his own veins were shaking even as Sherlock cut off the Spell behind him, apparently seeing that any more pull on his Master's energy would leave John more useless than good.

****

Afterwards, John could admit to remembering only catches. Snippets and glimpses of the battle. He heard about everyone banding together, driving the rebels from their base and managing to only lose two or three men in the process (Barnes turned out sadly to be one of them. John found his dinner went cold after it was announced at the mess hall, whispered amongst the ranks). He learned that both Mike and Molly were safe, and were even congratulated as they'd helped stitch back together one of the captain's after they'd taken a mauling to their arm. All in all, the death count was markedly higher on the enemy's side, and the base had managed to take exactly one prisoner, the rest killed in battle or having retreated. It was strange, John thought, how he felt a spark of sick triumph at the news that the _**Draski**_ hadn't managed to get the medical supplies and weapons they had been seeking.

 

The fire Dragon he had been treating before the actual battle had vanished. His Mistress came to the tent, all but hyperventilating as she realised he had been lost in the chaos of battle. None of Andy's condolences seemed to assuage her, and John had listened from the edge of the tent as the women had torn a strip into the medical captain, snarling at him more harshly than a Dragon herself as she'd berated him. Sherlock to his credit remained silent, even when John flinched at the sound of two voices rising. It was too much like the fighting he had heard when he had been back home, and the young soldier soon fled, feeling as if his nerves were made of taught elastics drawn too far.

 

In fact, the Dragon was quiet for most of the evening, speaking only in John's thoughts when the man's hands trembled minutely on his soup spoon, and he couldn't seem to keep his eyes open a second more. John found Sherlock's voice strangely gentle as he murmured

 

_**I think it's time to go back to the tent.** _

 

The young soldier didn't argue. Merely, he stood and brushed off Mike's worried glance, plastering on a small but exhausted smile as Sherlock followed behind. Only when the pair were out of view from the others did John feel Sherlock's cool hand gripping the hollow of his wrist. The soldier almost questioned why, until he heard the Dragon's thoughts.

 

_**The spell I used today was far stronger than any I've used since I was a Hatchling, and I used it in haste. Your heartbeat has been elevated all evening, and your pupils have been dilated, battle-ready.** _

 

Sherlock's voice was steady, a rock amidst a floating sea. His voice was low as in the shadow of the mess hall he ducked his head, rumbling apologies that made John's chest tighten.

_**I should have accounted the fact of what it would do to you. I will not use such a spell again.** _

 

_Sherlock... you likely saved our lives. And the lives of several others._

 

The silence on the death of Barnes remained between the two of them, unspoken. By way of answer, the Dragon merely pulled on the Human's sleeve. Leading him towards their tent firmly. His tone however trembled as much as John did as they moved, not quite an apology, not quite an insult.

 

_**You're shaking. How can you expect to do weapons training tomorrow if you quake like a leaf?** _

 

John managed a smile, then he all but sleepwalked the rest of the way, unsure if he imagined Sherlock's hands on his waist (supporting, holding.... comforting) or if his Dragon had been just as shaken by the battle as he had been. All in all, the pair had come out of their first battle practically unscathed. Yet John felt unease seep into his bones even as behind them in the mess hall people started to cheer. To rally. Something unnameable, likely poisoning him slowly like Barnes' blood must have when it had dripped onto his clothes, seemingly trying to seep through his gloves.

 

 

Curling into his cot, John vaguely realised that he hadn't heard or seen Bill or Rin since before the battle. Murray's bed lay empty, tucked neatly into a corner like it hadn't been touched since the morning. Briefly, John spared a note of worry, wondering if the pair had been hurt.

 

Then Sherlock's sigh of _**You think far too much**_ sent John firmly into sweet darkness of sleep, and the soldier fought no more.

 

 

****

Sherlock's dreams were uneasy as he slept, hovering somewhere between the line of nightmare and merely unsettling. The Dragon felt cold frost under his bare feet, and the clink of a chain bound about his neck, connected to his collar. Smaller, he was so much smaller. His hands were rounded and slightly chubby as he wrapped them about his chest, and his shoulders hunched as snow kissed his hair, turning dark curls white. The chain about his ankle also clattered, but it clattered with the march of hundreds of other feet. Other children, lined up in front of and behind him. Their breaths streamed in wisps before them, and those not able to handle the cold shivered and moaned, clutching their clothing about the frail Human form they were forced to take. Their footprints left trails in the mountainous regions, a single line of upturned snow lead by a Human in a black cloak, his cruel grey eyes observing their procession with a disgusted sneer.

 

Sherlock could remember the first time he considered killing someone, and it lingered with him to this day, though he knew not the circumstance in which it happened, nor what land could be so blessedly cold and remote that he could feel completely at room temperature.

 

Then the scene melted, changed and shifted like a coalescing of colours, and the Dragon found himself on his knees. Rough hands gripped the edges of his curls, and spikes of pain tightened about his throat as the chain-link contraption that had been his collar at the time bit into his skin. The man above him smiled lazily, grin spreading across his attractive features, twisting them into something cruel. The blonde of his locks glinted like amber, and as Sherlock reached with trembling hands for his belt buckle, the features changed. Suddenly John was towering over him, John was smiling cruelly, but it only lasted a moment before the expression melted into a feature Sherlock recognised on the soldier's face. Terror.

 

And bombs whistled through the air, but they weren't really bombs. They were his people, aggressive and half-starved and spitting curses at him, lunging for his throat and snarling insults. He ripped their throats out even as their thoughts screeched at him, denouncing his honour and his pride.

 

_**Traitor!** _

_**Filthy Dog!** _

_**Human-lover!** _

 

John had not understood the words they'd hissed as the attacked, but Sherlock had been able to translate all too well. Eventually, the attacks in his dreams turned into faces he recognised, Rin lunging for his throat, her shriek of triumph eerily similar to that of the shriek of the alarms that had blared over the base. The next instead Murray, eyes dark and unreadable as he held a gun to John's head. His voice filled with moroseness as he muttered _“I told you not to let this place get to you.”_

 

Sherlock woke to the bang of a bullet echoing in his mind. The Dragon reared from his cot, drenched in a cold sweat. But his waking revealed no dangers, and the desert was quiet and dark even as the moon spilled over the base, drenching everything in a pallor like bone. Heaving quietly in his blankets, the Dragon shivered, though he had never been cold a day in his life. Across the tent, he saw Murray's form, sound asleep and shifting only at the sound of his harsh breaths. Sherlock struggled to reign them in, silencing them with a sharp bite to his wrist. The skin came away puckered and angry, but it calmed him.

 

And as the stars shone through the slit of the tent, Sherlock tried to forget how dead-eyed the illusion of the Humans within his mind had been, tried to forget how John had screamed. He tried to ignore how his finger's twitched, itching to find his soldier, pull him protectively closer like a mother looking after her eggs. He ignored how even still he piled his sheets into a bundle, embracing it quietly and forcing himself to lie still. 

And most of all, he tried to forget the children, chained and wandering in the snow, and the childlike voice that had muttered behind him in that line, whispering words Sherlock didn't know the meaning of.

 

_They're all so boring, aren't they?_

 


	21. Failed Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Leanora for betaing this chapter for me :3 I hope you enjoy!

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

 

 **Flight (The Physical act of):** _One might not be terribly surprised to see the idea of flying in these pages, as no one who has seen a Dragon has missed the beauty of their wings. Although all Dragons can fly, not all use the same methods to achieve flight, and as such when learning about Dragon physiology, one must take into account a Dragon's adaptations to their original environments (see page 555 Section E for more details). As it is, flying is extremely intimate for a Dragon, and not at all like some children's cartoons might have you believe. A Dragon when in flight is at their most wild-their truest form, and as such they are incredibly proud and protective of the euphoric feeling flight can bring. Do not be offended if your Dragon friend does not let you ride on their backs- as such a notion is often seen as humiliating within Dragon culture. Generally, a Dragon will only allow their Mate or their Hatchlings join them in flight this way, however many slave-rearing cultures do force their Dragons to go against this base instinct. A Dragon that shows signs of forced "Mounting" will be irritable, often prone to bouts of aggression and mistrust of Humans. Often, such aggression is welcome and even encouraged in battle-type occupations, such as the army. Although it is my duty to remain as unbiased as possible within these pages, such an act is generally seen by other cultures as barbaric and shameful._

 

 

Apparently the attack had been carried out by a few renegades, indeed trying to raid the medical tents and food supplies.Like birds picking at the skin of a lion, they had hoped to cause enough of a ruckus and distraction in order to mask their true intents. However, they had not accounted for the new soldiers on the compound, and that was how John found himself basking under the rare wave of Wilkes' praise.

 

The Colonel's broad shoulders were squared with pride and he spoke in a thunderous voice that was as brassy and bold as it was shimmering. It was the kind of tone that made even the most exhausted soldier (and there were quite a few, what with the parties that had gone on last night and the amount of drink that had been passed around) bolster with confidence. Despite himself John found the stirring of camaraderie quiver inside of him, further encouraged by Mike's friendly nudge in the shoulder and Bill's sunny grin as he fell into line.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to say that all of you handled yourselves exceptionally well out there yesterday, especially given the fact that you were only relying on your basic training. I hope to see only improvements from here on out. Furthermore, I have one group in particular to thank not only for aiding Captain Brogues in defending the munitions tent, but also for helping to detain one of the attackers for questioning.”

 

The man's keen brown eyes traced the soldiers lined up before him until they landed on two female figures to the left of the group. Beside John, Sherlock cocked his head in interest. John could see why almost immediately. The Dragon was the only other Northern they had seen on the compound.

Wilkes' voice contained commendation. “Lieutenant Kate Bellerose and Dragon Irene, in honour of your outstanding performance, I would like to ask your help in teaching today's training course.”

 

The two soldiers separated themselves from the line-up, and for the first time John found himself looking at another of Sherlock's kind. At once he was struck with the striking similarities and differences he saw in the lithe creature that moved behind her Mistress.

 

She was beautiful, the same kind of ethereal, feral loveliness that Sherlock's physical appearance had. Like she'd just as soon rip your throat out as she might kiss you. Dark red lips contrasted pale blue eyes that shimmered like winter was trapped within their depths. Her hair was of a dark brown, but not quite as inky as Sherlock's, warming closer to cinnamon. Despite the sun, her skin was as pale as marble. Her smile was edged and cunning.

 

John didn't jump this time, used to Sherlock invading his thoughts and speaking his deductions in the safety of their thoughts. Beside them, Bill Murray shifted slightly. _**Thralls** _ were sometimes hard to block out, and John knew the sound of static his friend was most likely to hear at the Northern Dragon's puzzling words.

 

_**John... I think I know her.** _

 

John looked up before he could stop himself, staring at Sherlock with surprise. His Dragon's brows were furrowed in confusion and their blue orbs glowed with something that wasn't quite fear, but ~~~~something that held in it a note of pain. The next instant Sherlock's eyes closed and a pale hand reached up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. John started to speak, momentarily forgetting himself, but beside him Bill nudged his elbow, chin jutting forward with a look that spoke clearly. _Pay attention, Wilkes is looking._

 

Sure enough, the Colonel was speaking, addressing the soldiers calmly and confidently. His gaze swept over John, resting instead on Murray, and his voice was a silky purr as he cocked his head to the side. No Morstan to call him out on his actions this time.

 

“Murray, I shall also require _your_ assistance. You know the rules after all, inexperienced flyers must always have a more experienced pair to... _spot_ them. Just in case.” There was something else in those words, hidden under layers of meaning. John saw Rin stiffen minutely and her dark blue eyes seemed to narrow into slits. Slowly, Bill and his Dragon moved forward until they stood on Wilkes' other side. Kate and Irene looked as though they were sizing up the competition before them, standing tall and straight and at attention. In contrast, John noted how his friend seemed relaxed. Too relaxed. His hands at his sides looked as though they were longing to hold a gun.

 

Sebastian in contrast appeared overly cheerful. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly, his tone commanding as he called everyone's attention to the centre of the training ground, as if he was a teacher speaking to elementary-school students.

“Now, before we start I want everyone's Dragon to transform. Masters and Mistresses, at their sides.”

 

Kate snapped firmly, and beside her Irene stripped with precise ease before suddenly falling forward in one sinuous movement, so that within the blink of an eye John was staring at a lithe, winter-white Dragon. Instantly the creature's scales began to shift into desert colours, driven by the instinct for camouflage. Murray had no need to signal, his mind and thoughts alone were enough to have Rin shift beside him, stirring up hot desert dust with her golden tail. She was smaller in stature than Irene, but a long line of cruel-looking spikes glinting dark black protruded from her back. When she breathed, smoke trailed from her nose. Both Dragons towered over their Humans, silently staring at one another, slitted eyes pale blue and brilliant, fiery yellow.

 

The other soldiers in the line-up had their Dragons transform as well, snapping their fingers or uttering a short command. Sherlock did not wait for John's mental request, instead crouching to strip his uniform from his body and folding the clothes into a neat pile on the desert floor. He then transformed, skin mottling over to a thousand different shades of blue-silver-red, settling only when John found himself standing in the shadow of his Dragon's true form. Hand instinctively reaching up to stroke Sherlock's frost-cold snout, John could still not bring himself to quite believe the _size_ of his friend, even as the creature's voice rumbled in his head, a thousand times deeper and echoing like a drum pulsing inside of his skull. His words made John's skin prickle with unease.

 

_**Her scales... the colours she's showing mean she's on the defensive.** _

 

The soldier didn't need to guess who Sherlock was talking about. The Dragon's eyes were fixated on the Northern Dragon in the centre of the ring. Irene's scales bore the cerulean blue of painted pottery. Sherlock's eyes were narrowed in thought. Still, John couldn't help but focus on the Dragons _around_ him, taking in the motley crew of creatures that now, free of their Human shells, stood crouching or hovering above their Master's and Mistresses', awaiting orders patiently. Like dolls. Terrifying, beautifully ornate dolls.

 

Wilkes looked over the Dragons with something indefinable glittering in his eyes. His voice was firm and low.

“For this lesson I am putting Murray in charge. I am currently expected at a meeting with higher-ups to discuss how to better protect the compound. Murray-”,Wilkes pulled a radio from the waistband of his uniform, tossing it in the air where Bill caught it with ease, “-should anything go wrong, do not hesitate to contact me. Although I expect you can handle some _rookies_ trying to get air-borne.” Sebastian laughed, and John felt a small shiver of apprehension run through him; Irene and Kate did _not_ look like inexperienced soldiers. Rather, they held the posture of two wildcats, poised to lunge for someone's throat. There was a tang of something untamed in the air, and the young soldier could hear the indistinct buzzing, the thoughts of the other Dragon's in the line-up, worried and uneasy. Murray, his eyes dark, did not smile. He answered with a low voice that seemed to hold more steel than Wilkes was expecting.

 

“Don't worry, Sir. I have _everything_ under control.”

 

The width of Sebastian's smile flickered, but before it could fade, the man was already turning away. Feigning carelessness. John tried not to flinch as Sebastian presented his back to Rin, ~~~~the Dragon's eyes narrowing in a way that made Murray shake his head minutely.

“I'll leave you to it then, _Lieutenant._ Remember though, not _everyone_ can just speak to their Dragons and _ask_ so nicely to mount.”

 

Then they were left in the dust of the desert, and Bill clenched his jaw in silence. When his eyes cleared, he turned to Kate. His voice was curt and decisive.

“Shall we begin, Lieutenant Bellerose?”

 

In response, the strawberry blonde woman smiled in a way that held no warmth. Her voice however was silky as she replied “After you, _Sir._ ”

 

Sherlock hissed, and John soon realised why. A silver remote had appeared in Bill’s hands as he nodded and reached out to Rin, causing the Dragons in the line-up shift uneasily, their ears flattening against their skulls. Murray's voice held no mercy.

“The first rule of flying-”, he stated flatly, fingers pressing down firmly on the remote. The next instant Rin was snarling, curling inwards into herself so that her belly pressed low onto the sand and her head was ducked down. The broad width of her shoulder was now at the height of Bill's waist and Murray wasted no time, gripping the dip of her scapula with ease, heaving himself up so that he sat comfortably in the large cavern where the neck of the dragon met the spine before smoothing into wings. When Rin straightened, Bill towered over the rest of the ranks, his eyes cold with something unnameable that made John's chest clench in discomfort. For just a second, there was something lost in those eyes, something dark and brooding, and the soldier wondered what his friend had seen and what he'd been ordered to do for him to not even hesitate as he continued.

“-Your Dragon will not do this willingly. Don't waste your time expecting them to.”

 

 ~~~~Bill's gaze flicked to John briefly, a frown twisting his features. His voice softened as he gripped Rin's spines and stated

“It is the most humiliating thing a Dragon can do, to lower themselves to the position of a pack mule.”

 

 

****

True to Murray's words, most people found their Dragons had a seemingly instinctive ~~~~resistance towards even the _idea_ of being mounted. At first, many tried to reason with their battle partners, choosing various forms of verbal communication (some ordering, others pleading) in an attempt to have the proud creatures acquiesce to the training harness. A long, brown-leather saddle of sorts, John's was painted with a bright red medic cross, standing out distinctively, with plenty of pockets to store away supplies and 'munitions. Though many soldiers would eventually give up their harness for a simple safety cord once they became skilled enough, John would never need to. Partly because the cross alerted his teammates to his assignment, and partly because the harness came with a complicated set of straps that, when used correctly, could hold and injured person to Sherlock's left flank.

 

As it was, John found himself trying to convince himself as much as his Dragon that the thing didn't look completely atrocious and humiliating, coaxing Sherlock into staying still ~~~~as he held the harness in his hands, attempting to throw it over his partner's back before the Northern could pull away. So far it was proving rather fruitless, Sherlock's prejudice against anything confining only boosted by his prickly pride as he snarled, eyes slitted and dangerous. John could tell though that the Dragon had no intention of harming him, he had learned the difference between his partner's play-growls and when he meant death.

 

“Come on, you great git. _Please?_ Both Murray and that Kate Bellerose have had their Dragons mounted for _twenty minutes now._ I'd really rather not miss lunch if at all possible, and we have to go out on patrol later on today.”

 

Mentally, John added.

 

_I don't want to hurt you, Sherlock. I won't. But if I don't then someone else will wind up having to, because one way or another, we're needed up in the sky._

 

Sherlock's response was to snort in derision, spitting ice as his tail lashed with annoyance. His scales were an aggravated red-orange and he kicked up sand angrily, his blue eyes narrowed in distrust.

 

_**You cannot hurt me. My wings are a hurricane. My voice is an earthquake. I AM ICE. I AM DEATH-** _

 

John cut off the overly dramatic monologue by flicking Sherlock lightly on his snout, causing the Dragon to snort and sneeze in a rather undignified manner. The soldier giggled slightly, only sobering up when ~~~~some of his comrades in the line-up looked at him in puzzlement, still in headlocks of their own with their stubborn partners. John quieted and took a step closer, tentatively reaching out so his arms circled around Sherlock's cool neck, pressing his ear against the Dragon's hide. When he closed his eyes, the soldier could hear the pounding of his friend's heartbeat, how it drummed slightly quicker than usual, fear masked by indignation and outrage.

 

Sherlock stiffened at his contact, still not quite used to a touch he hadn't initiated, but didn't quite pull away. The Dragon's voice was a confused rumble, a question that made the other soldiers about them fade away, and John's heart ached slightly as the creature asked

 

_**John... what are you doing?** _

 

_Comforting you. Because you're afraid._

 

The Dragon hissed at the word _afraid_ like it was offensive, but John pressed on, aware that no one else was listening. To anyone who looked, it would appear as if John was simply trying to sneak his harness onto Sherlock, the device still clutched in one hand despite the fact that it made the embrace awkward.

 

_It's okay to be afraid. I'm not going to think you're weak because of it. It's normal, it's human._

 

The Dragon rumbled quietly. It sounded like Sherlock hadn't meant for his words to be so soft, as if he was sheltering John from a devastating blow.

 

_**I am not Human, John.** _

 

In response John stepped back, looking Sherlock in one giant blue eye. His jaw was firm even as he reached up to stroke the creature's muzzle, feeling the cold like a winter chill that never seemed to quite leave his friend's skin. His thoughts were small, but solid.

 

_No. You are so much more._

 

And Sherlock, suddenly quite vulnerable and unsure of where to look, might have responded, if not a Draconian shriek had pierced the air at that exact moment. John's neck snapped around as he looked for the source of the sound, eyes widening as he saw a soldier with dark ginger hair standing over her Dragon, remote in her hand and trembling as she looked with horrified eyes at the crumpled form of the magnificent creature lying at her feet. Her gaze was slowly filling with tears.

 

For a moment, the compound was dead silent. No one dared to move as the soldier sobbed softly, frozen over her partner who looked up at her with liquid green eyes, moaning softly in animalistic pain.

 

Instantly Murray's voice cut through the haze, snapping orders that couldn't be denied.

“Do not _hesitate_ or you will have to do it _again._ Mount before your Dragon recovers!”

 

And quickly, almost too compliantly the woman gripped her Dragon's spines and heaved herself into the dip between her wings, tears trailing down her cheeks while she pressed her face against the scales beneath her, muttering apologies. John watched as the Dragon shook, its pride completely shattered when the creature wearily rose back to their feet.

 

Bill's eyes were not filled with pride, but rather a cold sort of acceptance. He nodded his approval, but his voice was dead.

“Good.”

 

Then, to everyone else

“You have an hour more before lunch. Those who fail run laps after patrol until sunset.”

 

****

 

Needless to say that both John and Sherlock's figures cast long shadows as they jogged around the compound when the sun sunk low on the horizon. Mike trailed behind them and, in front of them, scared but surprisingly swift, little Molly.

 

Close by, his arms crossed and leaning against the pole that waved the British flag, a solitary figure stood watching. Bill, his expression unreadable. He produced a cigarette from his pocket, brought it to his lips and set it alight to a blazing burning ember.

 

While running , Sherlock thought about dark curls. Blue eyes. Frosted snow beneath his feet.

 

When he closed his eyes, silencing the frantic thrumming of his own heart, he thought he could hear laughter. A golden bell of a chuckle ringing through his head in a song.

 

It would have almost sounded like joy, had not the sensation of it sent chills along the Dragon's spine.

 


	22. Crack-Shot Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took forever!!! I am horrified by my own lateness D: however, here it is ^.^
> 
> Many thanks to Leanora for being a fantastic beta :)

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

 

 **Scales (Northern Dragons):** _As has been mentioned in previous chapters of this tome, a Northern Dragon's scales share the unique quality of being able to shift colour with their owner's moods. Most emotions will shift colours in a unique pattern, different for every Dragon, yet there are certain emotions that will hold the same hue for all (see page 385 part B for more information on scale patterns). These emotions are: Love (dark blue), Anger (Red), Lust/Desire (Pink-purple), Hatred (Black) and Grief (a dull grey). There will be variations of course for each Dragon, but use this basic colour wheel in order to better determine your Dragon's mood. In the long run, it may very well aid you in gauging how to proceed not only with Dragons you know, but strangers as well._

 

 

To John, the following weeks in the desert seemed to rush, to blur and shimmer like a mirage overhead. As if time lost itself in a vortex that swirled darkly above the land. Even the stars seemed not quite real when he found the time to look up to the sky, somehow brighter and far more abundant than they ever had been in London nights.

 

With every day, during which he was forced to coax, beg and borderline bully Sherlock into letting himself be mounted, John felt something inside of him bend. Pressing into the line of his ribs, adding pressure until he felt like he was trying to breathe through a straw. It was like struggling to move a brick wall, and John despaired over the fact that as much as it was necessary, _he had no desire to force Sherlock into submitting._

 

It was a fact that both of them were aware of, a thorn wedged between them that throbbed in time with each new soldier who finally succumbed, pressing their clicker ~~~~and having their Dragons kneel before them, subservience forced and wretched. Each time it happened John found himself flinching, looking away resolutely. He'd look up to find Sherlock's face, often transformed into his scaly and terrifying true form, gazing at him accusingly. Neither would speak of it though, especially not when, at the end of the day, they returned to their tent side by side, dusty and tired from running laps endlessly. Bill didn't talk to them on training nights, not that John blamed him. The man looked haunted, driven during teaching hours. Wilkes seemed determined to torment him, and though he wasn't often present for the actual teaching, he'd make sure Bill showed the group at least once how to mount properly before each lesson began. Who Sebastian was meeting with, John couldn't say.

 

Both man and Dragon made sure that Murray slept each night, as he was prone to sitting outside in the cold desert air, gazing up at the stars with a lit cigarette in his hand, shoulders trembling. John couldn't even say for sure if it was the flight training that was bothering his friend, or if it was the memory of something else. Some deeper running scar.

 

It was halfway through the second week of flight training that John and Sherlock were introduced to their Squad. A team to work with, once they'd be assigned fieldwork. John wasn't surprised to find Bill as the other _**Thrall** _ in his group. It had already been clear that the higher-ups took into account who appeared to work well with whom. Standing together, everyone regarded one another with something akin to caution, their Dragons on alert, all of them ignoring how the sun was already starting to beat down on them.

 

Five people, altogether. Besides Bill, John knew none of them. However he'd seen them, caught glimpses of their faces and the faces of their Dragons. He'd seen how they acted during training, during battle. As a result, he knew immediately which ones were probably friendly and which likely weren't.

 

As a result, when it was made known who was to be captain of their squad, John felt a sense of quiet relief. The man who stepped forward had a shock of white-blonde hair and his smile was easy-going and friendly. He was known as Captain Benson and it was apparent that he had been in a few wars, most notably due to the mottled scars that laced his palms as he reached out to shake each person's hand in greeting: burn marks.

 

“Well, it looks like we're one of the lucky ones, two _**Thralls,**_ which means it'll be easier to split up in the desert. John Watson, yes? You're our medic? This here is Farrow, he's real dependable in a scratch.”

 

He pointed to an English Dragon with solid-looking shoulders and the kind of face that looked prone to brooding, the creature's green eyes like twin jades as he tilted his head in a reptilian nod. John caught a voice, rumbling in his mind. It was surprisingly soft.

_**Greetings, my Lord. It shall be an honour to work with you.** _

 

 

“Yeah, and this here's Sherlock.” John replied after only a moment's pause, caught by the effusively friendly atmosphere as well as the hum inside of his thoughts, when the other Dragons sought to make a niche inside his head. Like different channels, they all hummed, bees that had to be turned down carefully, lest they be shut out by accident.

 

John smiled, aiming for lightness. Not many soldiers had really broken from their self-imposed shells as of yet, but with Benson's warmth he could sense people slowly relaxing, finding the elusive mannerisms required for social work. A woman looking to be in her early thirties patted John on the back in a friendly greeting. Her accent was decidedly American, dark freckles were smattered across her coffee-coloured cheeks and her brown eyes sparked with a fire brighter than her Dragon's scales.

 

“Name's Marley, Lieutenant Marley Jones. My Dragon Parlyanne and I have done this a few times now, so we know what it's like to be fresh meat.” Her Chinese Dragon blinked its assent behind her, almond-shaped eyes streaked with flecks of gold in their depths. Behind John, Sherlock thought his deductions with lightning-quick brutality.

 

_**Borderline alcoholic, not an angry drunk though. More silly. Has a small dog back home. Possibly two.** _

 

The final squad member was the only other newbie, and as such both he and John shared a small smile of camaraderie before shaking hands. John knew his name already, having heard it screeched across mess halls. Rory McLeod was known for being a troublemaker, as well as for having one of the few Dragons on the entire compound that was rather skilled in Explosives Magic. As a result, John had no issue identifying him, to which the young man laughed jovially, ginger hair tilting back with his grin.

 

“You got me. John Watson and Sherlock, then? Heard all about Northerns, not that I've seen one up close until now.” Without hesitation the man's green eyes flicked keenly over Sherlock's pale frame. He gave a low whistle of appreciation. “That one looks like a handful.”

 

John, peeved that Sherlock was being treated like an object but grudgingly in agreement, laughed awkwardly. “You have _no_ idea.”

Behind him, Sherlock snorted softly. A sound only meant for John, irritated but still rife with a sort of rough affection.

 

Once everyone was properly acquainted, Benson outlined the kind of work that the group would be doing. Being the medic, John's position was fairly straightforward, but it came as no surprise to him, that he had also been recommended for more artillery training than just the basics. Apparently Dodge had picked up on “his eye for detail”, whatever that meant. That way he found himself sent off to the shooting range, Sherlock trailing behind him, both of them having mixed feeling s about the idea of seeing Dodge and Cerioth once more. Truthfully, up until now John had tried to avoid them, if only because the woman's face had a tendency to set his teeth on edge. Petty grudges in battle were dangerous to hold on to , but he figured he could be allowed at least one. As it was, he was surprised that _Sherlock_ of all people halted him outside the shooting range, one hand pressed on his shoulder in order to placate his annoyance.

 

_**John, she was only doing her duty.** _

 

Blue-green eyes swept over the soldier, something implacable hidden in their depths as Sherlock continued.

_**To most, I am an object, not a person. Even I don't understand the anger you feel when you perceive someone as a threat to me.** _

 

John sucked a slow breath through his teeth. Rubbing at his temples and closing his eyes, he tried to dissolve the feelings of murder that coursed through him. Though much of him chafed at the thought that Sherlock perceived Dodge's treatment as “normal”, a larger part conceded, albeit reluctantly, that the Dragon had a point. There would be no outlet for this anger, it would only be left to simmer and seethe, and by extension hurt people around him. Logically, John could understand it. Emotionally however, he would very much like to revert to a grade-school child's mentality, putting tacks in the woman's shoes.

 

As it was, Dodge did little to redeem herself when he and Sherlock stepped inside, her glance appraising and calculating as she slipped the silencing headphones off her ears to state plainly, “Someone radioed that you were coming in. Get your gun, clean it, get ear protectors and begin. Sherlock will sit this round out, since he's never touched a gun before. If you want, you can teach him on your own time.”

 

Cerioth greeted them with a small nod, surprisingly, a gun in his own hands. Not many Dragons bothered to learn how to shoot, but as John set his Browning on the bench and went to get supplies from the back to clean it, he could see that the creature was an excellent shot. There was something almost sinuous in Cerioth's movements, in the slow breath he exhaled at each shot, in the way those dark eyes unflinchingly locked on the foam target, hand applying the slightest pressure on the trigger. Dodge was equally talented, able to fire with accuracy even as she watched John from the corner of her eye, lips pressed together in an unreadable expression while she paused to reload.

 

John found something soothing in the action of unloading his gun, in disassembling the parts with gentle hands and care, in checking to make sure the firing pin and spring were properly placed and that the gun itself was well oiled. He fell into the motions with surprising ease, all the while keeping up an internal monologue for Sherlock on what he was doing. The Northern Dragon's eyes sparked with interest, the scaled parts of his half-human form tinged a curious violet like plums. It didn't take long before Sherlock was asking impatient questions through their link, demanding to know about the sear lever and how much of recoil the gun had. John answered each question patiently, hands going through the motions, his blue eyes watching his Dragon with amusement. There was something.... unearthly about Sherlock when he was deeply fascinated by something, a sort of wide-eyed curiosity that took hold of him completely. It set in the creature's bones, making him seem younger somehow, almost childlike. The image of a Hatchling, bright-eyed and impetuous, filled John's thoughts for a n instant, and he blinked in surprise before it cleared. Sherlock as a child... John wondered what he must have been like, _who_ he must have been.

...He wondered if Sherlock might have once had others... A family.

 

Yet that thought was broken apart, dissolved in a dream when John realised that he had finished, that his gun was clean and loaded and ready. A heavy but familiar weight in his palm, he blinked once before rising from the bench. Dodge lowered her weapon from the targets as she saw him approach, clicking on the safety and allowing John to use her shooting range as he stepped forward, grabbing a pair of headphones on the way.

 

John stood for a moment, eyeing the target before him speculatively. It was a simple foam target-board, black with white outlines and a red centre, nothing that he hadn't shot at before. Yet with Dodge's eyes on him and the steady kick of Cerioth's gun in the background, it felt daunting. He took a slow breath, blinking away the uncertainty, his fingers tightening and loosening reflexively on the gun. Behind him, John could just make out Sherlock's outline, watching him with barely-suppressed curiosity. The sudden urge to show off, to be _good_ filled him, and he shook it off with vague annoyance, clearing his head. It was at times like these that he found himself remembering one of the things he'd learned from his old home, from the way his father treated him, and from his own experiences of how time passed.

 

_Breathe. Just keep breathing, don't let anything ever stop your breath. You keep on breathing, you will survive. Everything will be fine._

 

His hand undid the safety deftly, his legs taking firing stance automatically, and raised his arms. Like a clockwork machine, John fell into the movements like they were part of him, the noise around him fading away until there was nothing left, nothing at all but the target, his own breathing and his gun.

 

Inhale, Exhale.

 

Then...

 

_Fire._

 

****

It was like watching a dance.

 

Not that Sherlock had any experiences with dancing, none that could count. There had been the time he had worked in a club, his Master having had several exotic dancers and Dragons on stage, but somehow, this did not have the same sort of tone. No. Rather, more like a very precise ballet. Watching John slowly breathe, aim and fire was perhaps the most captivating thing the Dragon had ever witnessed.

 

If the man knew he was gradually increasing his pace, he didn't show it, John displayed the same cool confidence firing slowly as he did when firing once every second. His blue eyes were sharp and focused, and he didn't flinch when the gun kicked back slightly in his hands, instead moving with it, using it to prepare his next shot. Each shot rang in Sherlock's ears, and the Dragon thought perhaps he should be wearing silencers on his head, yet each powerful _bang_ caused something to jump in the creature's heart, and without being aware of it, Sherlock found himself leaning closer.

 

Each shot was a kill, and John's hands did not tremble as they fired. When the magazine ran out, he expertly discharged and reloaded, barely pausing before he was firing again, each breath leaving new room for a bullet. Sherlock had seen soldiers shoot before, had seen men and women who knew their ways with weapons, but there was something about it, something about _John_ that had the Dragon's mouth suddenly dry, his eyes wide. Without his consent, he found his wings tingeing a hateful, dusky passion-fruit colour, something he swiftly halted, lest Cerioth would see.

 

As it was, the Chinese Dragon had stopped firing long ago, eyes also fixed on John. Dodge watched with a kind of triumph in her eyes, her hunch confirmed. She tapped her fingers against her elbows, but her hands spoke of planning, restless in their movement.

 

If no one had realised that John was a crack shot before, they most certainly would now.

 

Sherlock, analysing despite his confusion, despite the unwelcome _something_ rising within him, narrowed his eyes in speculation.

Though he personally did not see Dodge as evil, she would have to be watched. If she took on such an expression while looking at John now...

 

The Dragon made a note to watch his Master's back.

 

 

****

 

 

John barely felt the tingling in his arms, accounting it to not having used a gun in a while, to the crick of staying in one position. He might not have noticed it at all, had he refrained from taking a shower that night. Yet in the jet of lukewarm water it was impossible to miss and his eyes widened as he traced the pattern, now curling protectively up to his mid upper arm. Clockwork and snowflakes, geometric designs. All in dark blue ink.

 

Sherlock's Bond was _growing._

 


	23. The Princess And The Dragon Of White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! DX many apologies, however with school starting up I have found myself suddenly waking up at five and going to bed at ten again. So. 
> 
> Without further ado, the next chapter :3 Edited by the lovely and helpful Leanora.

 

 

****Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.** **

**Slavery In the East (The Dynamic of Master and Pet):** _Although a casual observer might think the Western treatment of Dragons is appalling, it is sadly nothing compared to how much of the world, particularly most of Asia, treat their slaves. In most Eastern countries, a slave is a mark of wealth and power, and as such a person's slave is often treated (appearance-wise at least) better than the Master's own household. It is considered shameful for a Master's slave to bear visible bruises or signs of abuse, and a malnourished slave is seen as a personal insult to the Master's  capabilities  of caring for their property. However, slaves of the east are often vulnerable to trafficking of all ages, there being no age limit on the market for sexual slavery and drug smuggling in regards to Dragons. With no safety net set within the law or basic human rights, Hatchlings are often taken as eggs from their mothers, leaving long-term psychological damage on both parent and child in the future (See page 394 part C for details). As well, many Dragons are subject to "Branding" in the Eastern Slave trade- either having their tongues cut out or scarification of some kind in order to denote their status._

 

 

Trips into the villages and the main city were often long and took meticulous planning and effort. Still they were necessary, as the military gained much of its supplies from local farmers. That was how John found himself loaded into the back of a truck, sweat already beginning to cling to the back of his neck despite the early hours of the morning. Sherlock for his part was more alert than John could ever hope to be at sunrise, pale blue eyes flicking over their patrol squad, seeming to silently catalogue each individual into his mental reservoir. The Dragon had spent the past few nights telling John all he had learned from mere observation, their mental link connecting them even as they both lay on separate beds, Bill already fast asleep across the room. Sherlock had been quick to point out many hidden tells, from Captain Benson's slight tick in his right hand ( _has been shot in the arm before, was lucky and it was just a graze but it left psychological trembling when he's not actively in the field_ ) to Lieutenant Marley's caffeine addiction ( _**she's going to miss coffee when the trucks cease to supply it due to work strain. I estimate that to be in another three months** _ ).

 

John personally found the entire thing somewhat entertaining, if not slightly invasive to his new comrades' privacy. Though he sometimes scolded Sherlock for stating his deductions out loud, the truth was that the young soldier didn't much mind them filtering into his thoughts. Like a background radio it grounded him into the present more firmly, keeping his mind from wandering. Sherlock would often talk late into the night and John privately suspected that his partner's smooth and soothing voice was one of the reasons he hadn't yet succumbed to nightmares. While Bill occasionally woke, covered in cold sweat and gasping, John rarely had a rough night. Part of it was due to his own countenance, but he knew that a larger part had to do with the fact that as soon as his thoughts went restless, Sherlock was there, deducing or simply speaking. Filling the emptiness with sound.

Beside him, the other patrol that accompanied them (including Molly and Mike much to John's delight) were currently speaking, chattering away and getting to know one another more thoroughly. There was already a kind of cohesiveness to the general air, a bond steadily forming. John couldn't help but notice how Molly was slowly coming out of her shell more and more, her dark eyes lighting up with enthusiasm and joy when she timidly spoke during the proceedings. Once or twice she shot a shy, cautious glance in Sherlock's direction, biting her lip as if wishing to speak to him. However, she couldn't seem to gather the courage. For his part, Sherlock didn't seem to notice much, far too focused on Captain Benson's apparent love for classical rock and his morning grooming habits.

 

As they sat on the metal bench of the supply truck, John found that the cacophony of ramblings and noise surrounding him bolstered him for what he had only caught a glimpse of before. In the midst of dust and sand, he came to look upon a kind of poverty that had been unusually dire, even to District Three. The pitiable sight affected all the soldiers, their voices faltering and eventually falling silent as they all peered outside the truck, straining to glimpse a remnant of life outside of army fatigues and roll call. What they saw was a clash of poverty sitting next to unimaginable wealth, and like two ugly colours, they came together and jarred the senses with warring sounds and sights and flavours.

 

Kandahar was the kind of place that looked like it had once been a thriving city, black-top and pavement left to crack and in a state of disrepair, sand drifting into every possible crevice and pore. The buildings were white or tan brown, and they stood with the precarious nature that old houses took on when they were left to neglect. Despite the dilapidated nature of the structures before them, John saw many people peering curiously out of their windows at the progression of soldiers, their faces of all colour and race, but the majority of them wore desert-like traits. Weathered skin, dark eyes and dust-covered curls peeked from around bullet-riddled walls, and adults and children alike glanced at them with a mixture of suspicion and grudging respect.

 

The most prominent feature and immediately noticeable was the distinct separation of the classes throughout the streets, blatantly reflected in the way the road was divided. People in rags all but cleared the way for what looked to be a procession of grand proportions. John had thought the central District of London had held extreme wealth, but he found his jaw dropping open in shock as a litter carried by Dragon servants came into view from down the street. For one, the servants were all bare save for the silken loincloths tucked around their waists. Tanned skin stretched over their unclothed shoulders and torsos, weathered as much by sun as by rain. There was a kind of grace to them as they moved, suggesting a powerful, hidden strength capable of so much more than just carrying, and they all bore the markings of Chinese descent, delicate in frame and dark-haired. The glint of their collars was evidence of their Master's wealth. John couldn't be sure of course, but squinting he was fairly certain that most of the frame was solid gold, glittering jewels embedded it in intricate patterns, leaves and sprigs of ivy. Tiny but immeasurably precious. The gems sparkled in the haze of the early afternoon sun, and from across the bench of the truck Murray was quick to answer the questions showing in the soldiers’ eyes.

 

“Here, the rich display social status via extravagance. Generally, the more gaudy and priceless the better. I think I recognise the pattern, it's likely the litter for the leader of most of Eastern Afghanistan, Queen Rania.”

 

John recognised the name. Even back in his slum of a district, tales of the Princess of the East had filtered through to him, either via news stories or urban myth. Commonly known as _The Blind Maiden,_ Princess Rania had ascended to the throne at the tender age of nine, after the _Draski_ slaughtered most of her family in a bid for power. Though the take-over had ultimately (very narrowly) failed and the young monarch had (even if just barely) escaped with her life, her eyes had ~~~~been irrevocably damaged by fire. Yet, despite her handicap, the Queen hadn't seemed willing to simply acquiesce her throne to Egypt, which might have very well turned her people into war fodder. Instead she had struck up deals with a number of powerful countries, quickly becoming known for her calculating manner and mind for strategy. She had traded land with the military in order to gain alliances, thus bringing income for her people and feeding hundreds out of the thousands of the starving . Nevertheless, she hadn't been as stupid as to let the people have too much wealth, still firmly establishing her place as ruler. Someone they needed and depended on. John still remembered watching the news, eyes wide at the way a mere child had managed to seemingly take the world by storm. However, these facts were not even the most renowned points of interest when it came to the East's Queen. No.

 

The perhaps most interesting fact about Queen Rania was that she may have been blind, but she used a Dragon to _see._ And not just any Dragon...

 

“By _God._ ” Rory choked, a breathless exclamation. If John had been looking at him, he would have seen how his cheeks were nearly as red with excitement as his hair. Everyone tried to look through the sheer, silken fabric of the litter as it passed, and John found his jaw dropping open as he saw the two companions inside, seated upon a pile of plush-multi-coloured cushions and scarves.

 

Queen Rania was a petite creature and was made even smaller by the ornamental wraps that adorned her frame. Her hair was dark and inky and tumbled down her shoulders in curls that were held in place with glittering pins. Her skin was the dark tanned characteristic of her people, and her milky eyes contrasted sharply with the dark blue bhindi jewel that glistened from her forehead. Her clothes were all shades of blue, from deepest indigo to the colour of a brilliant desert sky. Yet none of this could hide the broken, scarred skin that stretched across the Queen's face, white and pink and painful. And although her eyes were framed by rather stunning features, her sightless irises stared at nothing. Nevertheless John found at once that the Queen's eyes seemed to be flicking, tracking movement despite their obvious impairment. However, when the truck past the litter, the Queen was surprisingly not the most shocking creature nestled amongst the luxury the Dragon slaves carried upon their backs.

 

Curled around her frame, serpentine and unusually small but leonine and graceful, was a _white_ Dragon.

 

In its true form, it sat piled in the Queen's lap, almost like a pet. One of the smallest fire breeds, it was barely larger than a big dog might have been, its wing-span probably no more than the width of John's shoulders. Yet as the soldier looked on, he couldn't help but notice the hidden strength in the creature, how its claws were long and sharp-looking, rapiers tucked up against its chest as if it were a cat. The Queen's delicate fingers were stroking the Dragon's head gently, tracing the lines of its scales right between the two horns that jutted from its head like that of an antelope. Unlike the slaves carrying the pair, the Dragon wore no collar, yet one of its ears had been delicately pierced, a golden ring with a bell attached, tinkling softly as the creature raised its head to asses the soldiers passing its mistress’s litter. From where he was sitting, John noticed a pair of crystalline, bright blue eyes that appeared to latch onto his face. Simultaneously, the Queen's head tilted to the side, a bemused expression gracing her features despite the fact that her face was turned away from them. The Dragon's eyes seemed to glow, pale half-moons that suggested intelligence far greater than they should possess. A strange, probing sort of feeling struck John's thoughts and to his surprise he found himself feeling heavy, slow and thick and syrupy, the longer he looked. Clouds swam across his vision, and he felt as though he was floating, drifting in darkness.

 

There was a gentle voice humming in his head, but he couldn't quite make out the words. He didn't realise he was standing until the illusion was shattered violently by Sherlock's thoughts abruptly shoving into his mind, pushing their way through in such a manner that John would have normally perceived as rude, had it not been for the growling snarl rumbling in his head.

 

_**Mine!** _

 

Dizzily, John thought at first that his Dragon was speaking to someone in the truck. His heavy tongue threatened to chide Sherlock, to reprimand him for speaking to his teammates that way. Yet, as he watched more closely, he saw his companion’s sharp features were not focused on anyone sitting on the benches, but rather on the elegant-looking Dragon seated in the Queen's lap without an apparent care in the world. His blue eyes held a thunderous sort of fury, and John felt a vague twinge in his arm, the Bond Tattoo Sherlock had placed on him writhing, suddenly turning into fire ants beneath his skin. John wasn't sure if he had made a noise, but he must have, because even though to him time was moving as thickly as molasses, he could see Benson sitting up, looking at him with eyes lowered in concern. Vaguely, John could hear the conversation inside the truck drying up, dying away as his friends watched him, wondering what was wrong and why Sherlock was this agitated so suddenly.

 

Then, like a breath that had passed, the moment was gone and the litter was on its way. The truck carried on and John felt as if he could breathe again. To his surprise, Sherlock did not calm once the litter was out of sight. Rather, he seemed to draw nearer to John, guarding him protectively. His thoughts were loud and sharp, jagged spikes of possessiveness and outrage.

 

When the soldier asked his partner what had happened, Sherlock refused to respond. His tense posture however spoke of something feral, unguarded. It was clear to John that whatever had just happened was not normal Dragon etiquette. Moreover, it appeared to have shaken Sherlock to the core so that no amount of soothing would calm him. The Dragon remained tense, snapping at John's teammates, who were only vaguely aware of anything happening at all. Yet as John listened, he could hear the thoughts of the other Dragons in the truck, uneasy and afraid. He felt himself frown, trying in vain to ascertain what was causing them such distress.

But no answers could be found in the static of their minds. Every one of them was hiding themselves away from his mental probe, and to John this was the most disconcerting part. His blue eyes flicked to Murray and John saw that his friend wore a strangely pensive expression. He didn't ask if Bill had felt the weight too, if he had been sucked into the strange, time-slowing dimension that he had inhabited for that brief moment. For one, there was no way to do so without telling the others in the truck what had happened.

 

For another, he was too busy feeling his mind all but being assaulted by Sherlock's thoughts, crowding out his own, buzzing at a mile a minute. It was strange how the Dragon could so easily overwhelm him with so much information, yet nothing of particular informational value at all. Then again, John half suspected Sherlock did this on purpose. He noted how the Dragon’s hands were folded underneath his chin, and how his expression seemed dazed with thought.

 

John mused about just how far he'd have to dig through Sherlock's brain to get to the heart of his thoughts before reluctantly admitting it was likely impossible. Instead, he let himself think of the Queen, so young and yet so powerful and of the children crowding the streets of Kandahar, many dirty and starving and tired.

 

The soldier thought of milk-white eyes and of endless deserts. Of running laps. He thought of Dragons, so strong they could break a human being like a toothpick, yet bowing submissively to a small child. John thought of a lot of things. Yet he found no answers to his questions, only further mysteries. At the end of the day, he was getting rather tired of not knowing.

 

****

 

The centre of Kandahar was a hub of cultura ~~l~~ diversity, a 'melting pot' of ethnicity. People of every race, age and gender crowded the already very busy market, creating a noise so loud that part of John was certain people back home in London might hear it. Despite the bustling activity however, he found that people quickly made way for him when they caught sight of his uniform, glancing at him with as much respect as suspicion as they carried on their way, gathering produce to put on display tables. Much of the market was a bargaining sort of place, and John soon discovered that every coin was bartered for almost ruthlessly, every last shred of fabric or food sold for its worth, nothing more and nothing less. The shopkeepers were as good at bartering as the buyers, and they knew the exact value of their product and could predict how hard to push a customer based on the person before them. It was a complicated, rather fascinating game to watch, and as John wandered through the stalls (waiting for Murray to finish his business with a fruit-seller) he found himself smiling and even chuckling at the liveliness of the people around him. He especially enjoyed watching the small children, clinging to their parents’ robes or skirts, ducking between legs and cheekily begging the shopkeepers out of their goods with big eyes and grabby hands. Despiteof their rather ragged appearances they all seemed joyful and carefree, and John found himself somewhat relieved. To see a bright side to the depressing scenery redeemed an ache that had been truthfully nagging at him for some time now. And although he knew little to no Pashto or Dari, he cheerfully tried to learn, listening to the voices around him.

 

Sherlock however, was rather less impressed. He chafed at the noise, scowled at the people and the Dragon quite frankly seemed skittish, almost shy of the children. To say that the creature was _afraid_ of them would be an injustice, but John privately suspected that his friend was actually terrified of _hurting_ them by accident. The children of the market appeared to hold little fear, even of soldiers, and many paused to look at Sherlock, babbling in foreign languages and pointing out his collar or the shifting nature of his scales that dotted his skin here and there to their parents.

 

One such child, a little girl who was particularly brave, even dared to step forward, chubby hands reaching out in wonder, looking to touch. Her large brown eyes glanced up to John pleadingly, and though the soldier didn't understand the language she spoke, he knew well enough to know she was asking for permission. The thought sent a pang of _something_ through his chest, and he looked at Sherlock, asking silently if he would allow it. The Dragon's lips were tight, restraining a snarl or a leer, John couldn't be sure, but after a moment he knelt. Immediately the little girl toddled forward, reaching for Sherlock's dark curls. Her hands touched them, patted them with a loving kind of care that made John laugh despite himself. Sherlock for his part endured it stoically, barely wincing when the child's hands came to rest on the sharp plane of his cheeks, touching the scales that came and went in patches at the temple of his forehead. The Dragon's scales were a patient shade of green, turning into surprised marigold when the little girl tickled the sides of his neck. Sherlock's resounding chuckle was as surprised as it was unnerved, and the child laughed in delight, exultant in the depth of the Dragon's voice. She reached into her pocket then, showing Sherlock a small wooden doll. Her eyes were earnest as she urged him to touch it, feel its yarn-yellow hair and she muttered words that sounded like a trickling rivulet tumbling over stones. Sherlock held the doll in his long, skeletal hands as if it was made of glass. Like the wood texture might very well shatter if he breathed to hard. Despite not understanding, he listened to the little girl intently, seeming to be able to deduce when to nod at the right intervals. John thought the entire thing to be far more adorable than it likely should have been.

 

The child might have continued, if a voice hadn't called over the crowd, shouting a name that obviously belonged to her, given the way she reacted. A slightly older boy, likely the girl's brother by John’s guess, was standing on a wooden crate. His dark gaze was faintly disapproving as he called the girl's name again, cupping his hands to his lips.

 

“ _Husna!”_

 

John watched the little girl give Sherlock an apologetic wave, her high voice bidding farewell with a joyful _“Khuda Hafez!”_ Her small, sturdy legs then carried her through the crowd and she darted amongst the waves of clothing and noise without a care in the world. Sherlock straightened, watching her go. His expression was unreadable. Beside him, John smiled.

 

“You're good with kids.” He murmured, arms crossed over his chest. He watched as the boy and girl vanished into the crowds of people, street waifs once more. Sherlock's voice was a quiet rumble, thoughtful and vague in John's thoughts.

 

 _**To me, John, those are mere babies. Bear in mind that** _ _ **you** _ _**are an adolescent at most in Dragon years.** _

 

“How old are you then?” John asked curiously. He was no longer offended when Sherlock said something that could come across as rude and took it mostly in stride. To his surprise Sherlock pinned him with a look, his gaze inscrutable and intense. His pupils were wide and dark, saucer-like and uncertain. His thoughts were quiet and small, not answering the question, yet giving a response all the same.

 

_**What does it matter in the end? After all, I am living amongst Humans. Your lives are all so fragile.** _

 

John felt his throat tighten, even as Sherlock turned away. He silently wondered just what would have to happen to render Sherlock so vulnerable, so unsure when his age was questioned. What could make someone seem so fearful of ageing? Especially in Sherlock's case, as he was implying he was much older than he appeared... Then John realised that truthfully, painfully, he didn't think he could bear to know.

Sherlock chose not to comment when a small wooden doll, newly bought from the market, found its way to the foot of his bed. John didn't say anything, but he noticed how the Dragon's hands occasionally drifted underneath his pillow, lightly touching ~~a~~ the treasure hidden away from prying eyes. The small smile that would tilt upwards on the Dragon's face when he sometimes did so made the purchase well worth it, in John's mind. He promised to take Sherlock to the market again at some point, if only to see the children.

 

It was two days later that K ~~h~~ andahar was attacked. Draski were launching a frontal assault in order to steal supplies that they hadn't successfully acquired from the army base on their previous raid.

Neither John nor Sherlock saw 'Husna' again. The next time they came to the market, Sherlock was spat on by a man, angrily growling _“Padar nalat e saag!”._

 

Although neither of them understood the insult, they both felt the sting of the words. It was in the way that the people, now quiet and still, glared at them. It was in the way they shouted abuse.

It was in the way that John quickly had to realise just how hard it was to blend into the background when army fatigues identified you not as a protector, but a potentially dangerous threat.

 

****

Brigadier Morstan's appearance at the end of the month unsettled many of the soldiers, and whisperings about her possible intentions broke out in the middle of meals. Soon enough, John found himself drawn in, leaning over his bowl of soup and bread, intently listening to Marley as she held her audience captive with her gift for storytelling, eyes dark with excitement.

 

“The _official_ story is that she's here to suss out potential soldiers for top secret patrol-stuff. They say she's scouting, looking for people she thinks she can trust, recruiting. People to infiltrate Draski intelligence, that sort of thing.”

 

“You're not buying it, are you? It sounds like it's pretty official.” Rory commented around a mouthful of bread, chewing and swallowing with a pained sort of grunt. He always ate too quickly, a leftover habit from growing up with twelve older brothers. He had a tendency to just wolf down his food, regardless of the consequences. It was likely a good thing he was so active, John mused. Marley snorted in response, shaking her dark curls. Her voice was thick with disbelief.

 

“How _can_ you believe it? They need to bring in the _Brigadier_ for something like that? No. I think it's something else.” She leaned forward then, eyes flicking to John. Beside her, Parylanne chittered in quiet amusement. It seemed her Master's antics were endlessly entertaining to the Dragon.

“I think it's something to do with that escaped Dragon, the one _you_ were treating, John. Gone after his partner or whatever alone, but there's more, I think. _I_ think Morstan's hoping that the Dragon will lead her to the Draski hideout, if they can track its movements.” She confided, twirling her soup spoon in one hand. John had to admit it sounded plausible, although he couldn't be entirely certain of anything.

“How would they track him though? That one's long gone, likely died in the desert. And it's impossible to navigate there unless you know the lay of the land inside and out.” He frowned as he pointed out.

 

Marely touched her fingers to her neck in response. Her voice was hushed but filled with certainty. “The _collars_ , John. I think there's a tracking device in them. In all of them. But I don't think it ends there.” Rory rolled his eyes, but Marley's gaze was serious. Strangely enough, John noted how Sherlock watched her, interest hidden in the depths of his irises. Something calculating. He found himself leaning forward, expectant. When she spoke, it was with the heavy weight of a stone. Lieutenant Jones' voice was firm with belief, unwavering. When she finally spoke, John felt his heart suddenly plummeting into the pit of his stomach.

 

“I think there's a mole in the camp.”

 

 


	24. Mole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! ^_^ as some of you may know... I'm back. I hope that you enjoy the chapter, because this is truthfully where things begin to down spiral into slight hell for our boys for this fic :P 
> 
> Thank you all for being patient, and please let me know if there are grammar mistakes as this was unbeta-ed. ^.^

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Mole (Human Military Code):** _While on the subjects of Dragons, due to the naturally militant route that our world has fallen in, I feel it important that any Dragonologist be aware of Human_ _codes used in military camps. A "Mole" can be defined by a thesaurus as "A spy who operates from within an organization, especially a double agent operating against his or her own_ _government from within its intelligence establishment". "Moles" are a way that opposing sides often gain information about their targeted enemy, and can be used in a number of different_ _militant_ _operations (See page 443 for details)._

 

John made his way back to his bed that night feeling sweaty and disheartened. Another day, another round of laps having been run. Still, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to shock Sherlock into submission. There was sand collecting in places that the young man wished he’d never experienced, and all in all he felt as though his emotional state had been tossed upon a cheese grater to die.

__

Sherlock wasn’t faring much better, truthfully.

__

Since the incident with the White Dragon, the creature had been nearly impossible to keep tame. Hardly sleeping, and eating only when was absolutely necessary. The Dragon refused to settle, instead choosing to pace the length of the miniscule tent after training sessions, frost streaming from his lips even as sweat stood out against his forehead in jewelled beads. The restlessness could be felt in every pore of the creature’s skin, in the bend of his spine. John felt as if he were looking at feral animal, coiling itself up to spring on some unexpecting passerby. It was completely maddening, having the Dragon’s thoughts whirling through his own day in and day out, sharp like shrapnel and cutting.

__

Still, the fact that the Dragon hadn’t yet been once able to allow John upon his back admittedly was a stinging blow. Though the young soldier didn’t think himself some kind of Dragon expert, he was fairly certain that Sherlock for the most part at least, was happy under his care. In the rather messed up, broken hand of cards that life had given both of them, he liked to think that at the very least they had managed to reach the best possible solution given the circumstances. It wasn’t like John was asking for much, really. Was it? He just didn’t want to bloody hurt his friend because his superiors demanded it! Still, it was obvious the whole endeavour was wearing on all of the Dragons. Mike had finally given in the other day, only under Molly’s quiet pleading of _Please, just get on with it._

__

John and Molly both had to comfort the man for nearly an hour afterwards, Mike’s sobbing only driving an iron spike further into all of their chests. John had expected military life to be challenging, cruel in a more distant sense. This, however, this felt personal. This felt… too real. Molly’s cry, the way her body had convulsed, he had felt Sherlock flinch minutely in response to it. The truth was, the Dragon was terrified, on some level. Terrified that he would only be next in this ordeal.

**  
  
**

The army doctor, in that moment, had admitted to only himself that he didn’t think he could live with himself if he ever did that to Sherlock, even if the Dragon begged it of him.

So it was with reluctance, but the hope that the Dragon might understand, that John attempted to reason with him. Speaking up in the dusty silence between them, the army doctor’s voice was soft, deliberately gentle and nonthreatening.

__

“Sherlock… We can’t keep doing this.”

__

The Dragon’s pacing slowed but did not stop, Sherlock’s wings twitching from agitated dull orange to vivid red. His eyes were slitted with frustration, voice lashing out through his thoughts like wickedly sharp knives.

__

_**Really? I had absolutely no clue! As always John, you are a master of deduction!** _

__

He scowled at John, frost leaving his breath in a huffing smoke, flaring his wings in complete and total exasperation. The army doctor rolled his eyes at the Dragon’s sarcasm, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and sighing sharply through his teeth. His growl was very human, but in that moment, he wished he could roar like his friend could.

__

“I just don’t want to _hurt_ you, you git! I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal, I read the book and everything and I still don’t understand! Is your stubbornness really worth the pain of an electric shock?!”

__

Sherlock snorted, shaking his head as if what John had just said was something so plebian he daren’t bother to answer. The response made John’s vision flash to red, and he grit his teeth hard. Curling his hand and resisting the urge to hit something, the soldier glared at the Dragon in disbelief.

“Why is that so hard to believe that I’m trying to do something for your own good?! Am I really so dull to you that you think I don’t feel things when others order you? I don’t want to hurt you but I am obligated to do so and I don’t know what to do any more! You don’t even actually talk to me!”

__

He was aware distantly that his voice was rising, veering dangerously towards cracking apart. Still, Sherlock wouldn’t stop, a cold and remote mask sliding over his features. In the back of his mind, the soldier’s brain was signalling little alarms. His Dragon was beginning to look less human, and more machine.

__

_**And why is it that you hesitate to hurt me? Isn’t that your job, oh benevolent Master? What is your wish? For me to speak? To let you upon my back? Will you whip me if I refuse, as others have done?** _

__

The Dragon bowed low and mockingly, his eyes cold and cruel. John was beginning to tremble with the amount of effort it was taking not to scream at Sherlock, and he knew on some level he should stop, should just… breathe.

He couldn’t.

Not when Sherlock was accusing him of… _of…_

__

“I don’t want to dammit but I swear to _fucking Christ-_ ”  

__

That snap came with the soldier’s heated words, reaching out to his Dragon in an attempt to shake him into understanding, or at least stop the man from wearing a hole into the dirt floor. With the touch of John’s hand, Sherlock whirled around with a snarl, and _sprang_.

__

John’s reflexes were fast, but they were not inhuman. Both man and Dragon found themselves toppling onto the bottom cot, Sherlock coming out on top and pinning the soldier down by his shoulders with inhuman strength. John had barely enough time to realise what was happening before Sherlock was shifting, bones realigning themselves and jaw elongating so that the soldier found himself looking up into two brilliant blue slitted eyes.

__

The army doctor was frozen, unsure what had set Sherlock off, and afraid to move lest he do something to provoke the Dragon further. He could feel the press of Sherlock’s claws, positioned not all that far from his throat, could feel his friend’s breath, steaming over his skin and creating frost on the edges of his uniform. Underneath, his heart pounded even louder, whirling desperately in his chest and singing with terror. For the first time in a long while, John felt… afraid of the expression on Sherlock’s face. There was… something… _wild_ about the Dragon. Inherently uncontrollable.

__

Sherlock’s breath was one long, endless snarl, surrounding John and muffling all other sounds. It reverberated through his skull, hummed in his bones and blood, and the soldier was inherently aware of his own mortality, in that instant.

__

Apparently, so was Sherlock.

__

It happened in the span of a nanosecond, one second the Dragon’s expression beastly and menacing, the next wide-eyed and horrified at his own actions. The crushing weight on John’s sternum abruptly lessened, and a very human-looking, mortified Sherlock was quite suddenly curled about John, the man’s pale nose tucked into the dip of the soldier’s collar-bone.

__

John could feel the man trembling, could feel the heavy leather of the collar. He felt all of his anger abruptly wash out of him like a soothing tide. Replacing it was a wave of sadness and shame. Without thinking, he found himself stroking the top of Sherlock’s curls, running his fingers through them in an attempt to comfort the man who was now coming apart on top of him. Like a child finally going to pieces, it wasn’t long before Sherlock began muttering apologies. They started off in John’s head, broken, fractured images of begging and panic and fear and _sorrow, sorrow, sorrow._

__

But when a rusted bass that was cracked with disuse spoke, John was certain that his heart, already slowing from its wild thumping from before, tore itself into two.

“S-s-sorry. S-s-s-s-sorry, John m’sorry. Don’t… p-p-please…”

__

What he was begging for, the army doctor didn’t want to know. All he knew, was that there wasn’t anything in that world that would have ever made him lift a hand to Sherlock. Cradling him like a broken bird, John found himself murmuring gentle reassurances, smoothing the man’s hair down like he was stroking a massive cat to sleep. Still Sherlock carried on, occasionally speaking, sometimes flashing images into John’s brain. Many of them hurt the army doctor, pictures of pain and torture and fear. Contrasted with them, the warmth and newness and safety Sherlock felt with John.

__

When John started to sing, it was in part to stop those images, to reassure. He barely realised until he was halfway through the first verse that it was a song his mother used to sing to both he and his sister, and sometimes the little ones she had looked after while parents in the district were away. Its tune was hauntingly sweet. 

__

_Silver moon, precious moon what is it that you see?_

_All the ice and all the frost, shining perfect as can be?_

__

_Who could have made it, who could have done_

_such a wondrous beautiful design?_

_Of painted flowers, delicate thrones and crowns aligned?_

__

Slowly, Sherlock drifted off atop John’s chest, eyes falling to half-mast and quivering sobs turning into purrs. The army doctor himself felt like drifting off, suddenly overwhelmed at the stress of it all. Sherlock… his Dragon was so _broken_ in some ways, always expecting John to take back the kindness he gave to him without even conscious thought. It was… it was truly terrible, and the army doctor wished he could just make the Dragon _understand_.

__

Yet, he also knew that it could not work like that, and that kind of dreaming was foolish, even for someone who sang children’s lullabies to their Dragon.

It was with a quiet, heavy voice that John spoke, half believing Sherlock had fallen asleep.

__

“I would never… I could never, _ever_ hurt you in that way.”

__

John himself was nearly asleep when Sherlock replied. It was with a small, nearly silent whisper. Still, the army doctor heard it.

__

“I know.”

__

They fell asleep like that, neither one of them bothering to move to the opposite bunk. In the mid of night, Bill Murray returned to his tent silhouetted by afghan stars, and found them. He found himself smiling, faintly. Then his mouth became a line of tension, and the man turned towards his own bunk in silence.

__

No one had nightmares that night.

__

****

It was nearly an entire week later that Wilkes came to check on the new soldier’s progress with flight, saw that John had yet to shock Sherlock into submission, and instructed Bill and Mike to hold the soldier down so he could “do it himself”.

__

It did not go well.

__

Both Bill and Mike found that for a man that was not very tall, John could be incredibly vicious if so inclined. He fought with the energy of a wildcat, screaming at the two of them in desperation to _“Let me go, dammit!”_ and alternatively shouting at Sherlock to run. The Dragon did no such thing, ears flattened to the side of his head in resignation for what was about to come. His eyes were wary slits, but they remained fixated upon his own feet. The mark of someone submissive. John felt hot fear tighten in his chest at the sight.

__

“Sherlock! _Sherlock, don’t!”_

__

_“Soldier!”_ Wilkes snapped from across the training pitch, turning his back to the Dragon to look at John in annoyance. His tone was dangerous, low. Threatening.

“Are you trying to advise your Dragon to go up against its superiors?”

__

The way the question was phrased, it was pretty damn obvious that the answer was only to be _no._

__

John bit his lip, ceasing his struggling minutely, though he still trembled in his friend’s grasps. He couldn’t make it worse, he knew that logically, and knew that this was truthfully a long time coming. However.

__

Beside him, Bill whispered tensely. His voice was edging on to weary and desperate.

“John, mate. _Please._ ”

__

Then Sherlock’s voice, speaking out for the first time in public, softly and quietly.

“J… _Sir."_ And _oh,_ that was a painful realisation, that up until now, John had grown used to the sound of his own name on his Dragon’s lips. Sherlock stared resolutely at the ground, but his shoulders were squared as if for battle. His massive wings twitched behind him, as did his tail and ears, lashing like unsettled branches in the wind. His voice was a rumbling tsunami in his full form.

__

“I… I…” The Dragon blinked, seeming to tremble once with the force of some unseen emotion. Sherlock’s voice was filled heavily with reluctance, and a fear that he was working to hide but could be seen in the shifting patterns of rolling reds and greens of his scales. John stared at the Dragon, knowing somehow instinctively what his friend was about to acquiesce to. He felt his stomach twist itself into knots, and very suddenly the rest of the crowd faded away in his ears, turning into white noise. He felt rather than heard Sherlock’s presence in his own mind, caressing his thoughts as gently as one might kiss another’s cheek. It was an action that caused the soldier to shudder in Mike and Bill’s grip.

__

_“I offer you my wings.”_

__

Sebastian Wilkes, gaping in mute astoundment, watched as slowly, the massive creature’s front claws folded at the knees, and Sherlock lay his head on the ground as if in offering. In John’s ear, he heard Mike whisper a stunned and thick _“Bloody Hell.”_

Bill was silent.

__

John, for his part, was shaking his head. His voice was filled with refusal.

“No… No. Not like this. Not when you’re… _no._ ”

Then Sherlock’s thoughts, speaking in the soldier’s mind.

__

**I trust you.**

__

And it was in this way that John found himself released, moving forward with shaky, slow footsteps towards his Dragon, clearing a path for himself with his own presence, his fellow soldiers shocked silent and still like ghosts. The blonde, reaching the massive Dragon, hesitantly lifted a hand to stroke Sherlock’s muzzle with aching slowness. The creature’s scales were cool, ice to the touch, and Sherlock’s massive, slitted blue eyes closed once, a rumble dangerously close to a purr emitting from the creature’s mouth. There was something warm in the sound, and John knew on an instinctual level, that if he did this, there would be a marked difference in his relationship with Sherlock. What kind, he wasn’t entirely sure, but the ever-growing twist of his tattoo tingled, nearly encasing his shoulder now, snowflakes and geometric designs encroaching his skin inexorably more and more.

__

His Dragon.

His Mark.

_Consuming._

__

John climbed on, and just as he settled himself into the harness, strapping his legs into place, he felt the rushing roar of Sherlock’s massive wings unfolding, blocking out the sun itself with their length.

Then, his stomach left his body, plummeting down into his toes as with the mightiest of roars, Sherlock leapt towards the sky, leaving Sebastian Wilkes to cough up dust, a rather dangerous glint in his eye as the man realised with fury that the stupid creature had kicked sand purposefully in its jump.

 _ **  
**_ Bill Murray, motes of dust collecting in his curls, looked to the sky, his expression as unreadable as the desert itself. 

Still, Marley found someone whispering under their breath, just loud enough to overhear "You lot are looking for a Mole? Open your bloody eyes." 

Though no one could be sure who it came from, it was repeated to her unease more often than she could truthfully count that night. 

 


	25. Recruited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long.... Final projects are now all in ^.^'' so expect more updates soon :)

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Fire and Explosion (Magic):**   _ **Explosion Magic** is an ability reserved purely to English fire Dragons, based around the creature's fire core. Before it can be accurately explained, one might do well to brush up on their knowledge of English Dragon anatomy (see page 432 section A). A Fire Dragon has a second, fire-proof esophagus and stomach-like chamber, the durable sack filled with an extremely flammable liquid similar in chemical component to gasoline. This second esophagus is lined with a "sandpaper" like texture, creating a prime texture to create friction and heat. It is so sensitive, that the Dragon's breath alone can ignite it. **Explosion Magic**_ _capitalizes upon this ability, taking it a step further. Once the Dragon ignites their fire core in this way, it infuses its Magical essence into the flame, manipulating it to its bidding. Skilled Dragons can create fireworks, beautiful flaming images, and even set off a chain of explosions. However, **Explosion Magic**_ _in unskilled hands is extremely dangerous to both the user and to those around them- if the Magic is not infused properly, the explosion could erupt within the Dragon's esophagus, lodging itself and setting off the rest of the flammable liquid within the creature's stomach. The official term for this is a "False Spark", and it is usually fatal to the Dragon, as well as whomever might be nearby._

 

 

The second raid came in the dead of night, when the desert air had cooled off from its arid texture, plunging into polar-like temperatures in seemingly a moment. Seated atop a rapidly-cooling sand dune, Sherlock’s sharp eyes tracked the horizon mutely, keen gaze searching for something unseen. He had never truthfully gone to sleep, though John had dropped like a rock. The young soldier found flight practice utterly exhilarating, if not completely exhausting. It was a feat that required not only balance, but strong leg muscles, as well as an instinctive ability to predict Sherlock’s movements mid-air. John so far as a Thrall was leagues ahead of his colleagues, but that didn’t mean that it came easily to him. To be connected so long to the Dragon’s mind-frame proved to create a bit of an issue for the young soldier, as afterwards John found himself forgetting normal Human conventions such as speaking aloud, or stating where he was off to.

 

As it was, in the course of around a week John’s relationships with his colleagues were beginning to become slightly strained. Only Bill Murray, ever understanding as a fellow _**Thrall**_ , seemed unaffected by the change in the soldier’s personality and moods.

 

“It comes with the connection we feel with Dragons, mate. You can’t expect to immerse yourself in another species’ mindset and not be affected.”

 

Bill’s words had made John’s eyes shutter with a kind of wistfulness, the source of which Sherlock hadn’t wanted to stop and think on.

The Dragon knew he was affecting John... but to hear it stated so plainly… He wasn’t sure why the feeling of guilt that rose in his chest drove away his sleep, but it left him awake and brooding on outside of the tent, gazing into the distance at the wall of the encampment.

 

As a result, Sherlock was one of the first to hear the alarm, blaring in the distance a shrill and fearful warning. Two long cries, one short. The Dragon felt his heart tighten in his chest.

Chinese and Fire Dragons.

 

He was on his feet and shifting into his full form just as John rolled out of the tent, hair mussed with sleep but uniform on. In his hands was Sherlock’s new harness that had been made with their newly found ascension.  Pausing only to strap it onto the massive, blue-grey Dragon, John strapped one leg into its holding place before swinging himself up into the dip-like saddle. The other foot was barely strapped in before the young army medic was kicking lightly at Sherlock’s sides.

 

The Dragon took off with a gust of wind and a mighty leap, chest emblazoned with a bright red cross- medical team. As John felt the wind from the take-off blast his hair back against his scalp, he saw other shadows rising to the air. The other trained soldiers, finally joining the rest of the military in an actual battle.

 

He was a real soldier in that moment, and John Watson had to admit even as he spotted in the distance Bill, Marley and even Mike taking to the sky atop their Dragons, that he felt inside himself a peculiar stirring of excitement. The fear from the first battle was still there, yes, but it had lessened, become manageable. As Sherlock banked a hard right towards an injured soldier fighting off a Chinese Dragon’s boiling attacks, the soldier’s stomach flew away somewhere far behind him, and John let out a somewhat hysterical whoop of joy that carried into the sky.

 

****

 

As an official army medic, John was armed but not expected to engage in much battle. His job was mainly to pull victims of attack to safety, though it chafed him to see others in the crowd fighting and he unable to do so.

 

The battle was turning ugly, fast.

 

The way the compound fought was the squadrons worked together, the medics spreading out to aid all people on the compound. **_Thrall’s_** kept people connected by using their links to the soldier’s Dragons, functioning as radios might to keep the squadron leaders informed of what was happening. Already, John could feel Benson’s Dragon; Farrow seeking him out. The Dragon’s steady presence was a balm to John’s adrenaline, calmly relaying information.

 

_**We’re on the north side of the encampment, John. Towards the artillery. It was where the Dragons aimed for, last time. The medical tents are already being guarded by about three dozen dragon-riding pairs, not including the medics themselves. I need you to find Rory and his Dragon Piper. Wilkes wants him and the other Fire Drakes to make explosives along the outside of the encampment, in case the rebels decide to try and damage our defences.** _

 

John sent out his acknowledgement of the command, fingers curled about the grips of the harness, tightening even as he cast out his mental projection in search for the redhead. His concentration however was disrupted as Sherlock made a sudden dive out of the way, and not a moment too soon. John felt the back of his neck warm as boiling water suddenly shot out to strike the air where he had once been perched, landing on the ground below to be sucked up by the hungry desert sand. Both Dragon and soldier had little time to catch their breath.

 

The Chinese Dragon’s bare Human form came hurtling out of the sky like a stone and was expertly aimed to land on top of John, had Sherlock not instinctively folded his wings mid-air, barrel-rolling out of the way. John felt his world spin, his ears popping as he was suddenly upright again, looking below as the Dragon transformed again before he hit the earth, shifting from dark hair and olive skin to jade-green scales and golden eyes. Jerking hard, Sherlock rose back into the air by wrenching his wings outwards and beating them down with one painful stroke, taking off higher into the sky where the air was thinner and John felt the chill of the wind run through him. It all happened within what felt to be an instant.

 

In the next moment, Sherlock was turning around so that John found himself uncomfortably upside-down. He felt the rush of cold beneath his body as his Dragon spat ice, spinning in such a way that when the soldier was righted, he saw that a wickedly-shaped javelin of sorts was rapidly hurtling towards the enemy. The Chinese reared out of the way, fast but not quite fast enough. The spear made a horrific tearing noise as it ripped through sinew and muscle, lodging itself in the soft webbing of the creature’s wings. Howling in agony, the Chinese dragon fell.

 

Sherlock did not wait to see if it died upon impact.

 

“We need to get closer to the gate, Piper and Rory are due to be there. They need information.” John panted into Sherlock’s ear, licking chapped lips even as the pounding of his heart threatened to drown him. There had been a moment, albeit a small one, where he’d forgotten he was wearing straps to hold him in place. The moment of blind terror where he had thought he might fall had left him nearly quaking. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice.

 

_**I’ll fly to the centre of the compound, you should be able to reach Piper’s link there. John, something’s not right in this.** _

 

“How so?” The soldier asked, and his companion’s thoughts flickered with the images he was seeing with his keener eyes through the dust and smoke. Mindless violence, Dragons slaughtering soldiers and other Dragons, complete chaos. A battlefield. It was bloody, and John winced as the images assaulted him, clutching his head with a groan.

“Jesus, go easy on me, mate. 'Specially while flying.”

 

_**John, you see but do not observe.** _

 

The Dragon seemed flustered, ears flattened to his skull and gaze narrowed to slits. Sherlock’s observations were cut short by a necessary spin, an English Dragon suddenly hurtling from the sky like a tonne of stones. John saw the figure shrink mid-fall, a lifeless humanoid form only half-transformed from its true size. The creature’s skull was cracked open, breaking further upon impact.

The army medic resisted the urge to shudder at the bloom of red beneath him.

 

_**The raid before was focused, there was a target in mind. Ultimately, they were aiming for weapons and supplies. But what I’m seeing isn’t nearly so organized. It’s… messy.** _

 

The Dragon was right, John realized. Even as more images flickered into his thoughts, he could see it. There was no real sense of order, no obvious goal. Dragons were scattered everywhere, attacking indiscriminately. It was almost a self-enforced genocide, as the Draski were so badly outnumbered and frankly, out-gunned.

 

Something was going unseen, something more. There was another angle that just wasn’t adding up. John bit his lip, trying to discern the pieces of the puzzle from one another.

 

In the end, Sherlock was faster.

It did not make the Dragon’s realisation any more palatable.

 

_**It’s a distraction.** _

 

John felt a chill run through him, something cold and brutal. His lips parted in shock, eyes widening as he lifted his head, gaze whipping wildly about for what the enemy could be after.

 

“We have to tell-”  The soldier began, but John would never finish his sentence. For in that moment, his voice was drowned out by a deafening rush of heat and sound, a blast that rumbled through the very earth, deep and scarring and thunderous. John found his breath stolen from his chest as Sherlock plummeted towards the ground, ducking behind a pile of stacked fruit crates that had been left abandoned in the battle. The Dragon’s body created a deep groove in the sand, and his landing left John’s teeth clicking together, but both of them found it was a small price to pay when the dust cleared and John’s ears stopped ringing like the bells of a church.

 

Curled behind their makeshift protection, the soldier found himself unable to move, stunned by the force of the landing, blinded by the dust that had been kicked into the air.

 

When he opened his eyes, John found one of the straps of his harness broken, a nasty scrape stinging along the side of his left temple. He couldn’t seem to hear properly, everything ringing and whited out, not quite real. It was instinctive the way he knelt to unstrap his legs from his harness, to slide onto his feet. His knees shook- he had to lean against Sherlock’s hide in order to steady himself. The Dragon groaned, the sound a low rumble of irritation and pain as he painstakingly shrunk himself into a smaller form.

 

Both Human in appearances once more, Sherlock stark naked, John and Sherlock found themselves leaning against one another, blinking as one into the dust and the wreckage that stood before them where the centre of the compound once lay.

 

As the sand cleared from their eyes, it didn’t take long for John to pick out what had happened.

“Oh God.” He murmured, pale as snow. Beside him, Sherlock’s gaze was clear and powder-blue, standing out against the dirt smudged along his cheeks, settling into his dark hair. His lip was split, bleeding freely but already healing, scabbing over. The Dragon-man’s voice was low and tinged with the faint calculating tone of a scientist analysing a particularly scintillating puzzle. His features, however, were soft.

 

“John, there will be wounded soldiers. We need to move.”

 

Yet John stayed rooted to the spot, feeling a clawing horror crawling along his spine. For where there had once stood a weapons barack, proud and tall, now stood a smoking shell of a building. Thick, acrid smoke rose from it in the distance, far enough away that the pair had not been grievously injured. Closely enough however, that John could see the bodies, strewn along the sand like dolls tossed in every direction. Dragons, Humans, lying side by side, still as death.

It was as if a child had painted them on a canvas in shades of brown, black, and dark, dark red.

 

****

 

A suicide bomber.

 

The word still felt unreal, like something out of a bad war film. When John had heard that’s how they were referring to the Dragon that had self-ignited explosion Magic inside their fire core, he had felt the irrational urge to laugh hysterically. It was that, or start crying, and John wasn’t sure that if he started, he would be able to stop.

 

The higher-ups had demanded a collection of whatever weapons that were left, which amounted to anything that had been in use during the battle that hadn’t been completely destroyed. This meant that John had to kiss his hand-gun goodbye, at least until an order could be made for more supplies.

It would likely take three months to arrive, three long months before any kind of defences to come. Like sitting ducks, it was not a question of “if” an attack would come, but “when”.

 

The body count on the Human side was staggering as well.

 

John found himself elbow-deep in blood in the medical tent, his own head injury left untreated as he tried to stem the bleeding from an abdominal wound that had managed to puncture upwards towards the soldier’s lung. Much like the battle before in the aftermath, John felt as if time were slipping and sliding, blurring into a mess of blood and injuries and bandages soaked through with fluids, broken up only by the breaking of bones. The soldier witnessed three deaths that night, and Soo Lin watched with quiet eyes as John at the end of his shift curled inwards on himself, breathing deeply through his nose and clutching at his hair.

 

Sherlock stood watch outside the tent, but after that, he became a sentry guarding his Human, curled about John in such a way that would normally have made the young man blush as red as a tomato.

 

The Dragon still hadn’t bothered to put clothes on.

 

****

It was well into nightfall when John was finally allowed to find his bedroll and cot. The soldier’s legs carried him, but his feet felt like lead dragging him along. The only thing he felt vaguely aware of was the Northern Dragon walking silently behind him, Sherlock like a wraith or a shade in silence. Under the stars, the two of them found themselves without words to describe how they felt, and without a conscious consent, John found himself wishing he could curl against Sherlock’s chest, hide in his skin and bones and for just one night _not exist._

 

These thoughts, only half-formed and the product of a sleep-deprived and stressed mind, felt unfamiliar to the soldier. He accounted it to the fact that he still felt sticky, unclean, despite the fact that he had scrubbed the blood off of his skin until his arms had been pink and chafed with hot water.

 

His camp offered no sleep however, when the soldier came to see that two figures stood in silence at the mouth of his tent. In the darkness, their discerning features were difficult to make out, and John stopped briefly in a mildly paranoid moment of suspicion and panic before he recognised the glint of the blonde hair. Using the last of his energy, John managed to stand tall and straight, saluting wearily to Lieutenant Dodge and Brigadier Morstan.

 

They were both without Dragons, and Sherlock, John realised with a vague kind of embarrassment, was still naked.

 

Mercifully, both of the women didn’t seem particularly scandalised, or at least had the understanding and grace not to show it.

 

“At ease, soldier.” Morstan murmured, blue eyes kind and warm as they swept over John. Her voice seemed so soft, but John knew that if pushed, it could rise to overtake even the most bullheaded, belligerent rookie. Now though, it was filled with care that felt genuine, and the young man as exhausted as he was felt temptation to lean into it.

 

Beside him, Sherlock glanced uncertainly through his lashes, head bowed in its typical submissive state. The Dragon wouldn’t admit it, but he felt _vulnerable_ without his clothes. It was a luxury he had recently started to take for granted, and mentally he cursed himself for his own foolishness. Seeming to sense his unease, lieutenant Dodge tilted her chin towards the entrance to the tent.

 

“Sherlock, you are excused. This is a conversation for Humans, not for your ears.” She said it not unkindly, and the Dragon nodded in silent relief even as he hesitated in leaving his Master. He wasn’t fully sure John would stay standing for much longer, truthfully. What was more, the Dragon didn’t trust Dodge, not fully. She was goal driven, and Sherlock wasn’t sure what means she’d justify to meet her ends. He was tempted to politely find a way to refuse, even if it meant a beating, but his Human seemed determined to appear capable and in control. John nodded his agreement of Dodge’s order, silently projecting his thoughts into the Dragon’s mind.

 

_Go, Sherlock. If I need you, I’ll shout._

 

The Dragon was still clearly unsure, but he knew better to argue in front of John’s superiors.

 

_**Be careful.** _

 

He thought instead, blue eyes narrowing fractionally. John nodded once, but other than that, didn’t answer. His gaze was becoming clearer by the minute, sleep falling away to be replaced instead with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

 

As the tent flap closed behind Sherlock, brigadier Morstan seemed to straighten. Her smile didn’t falter, but it seemed to become brisker, more business-like. Her voice took on the no-argument quality that she was known for, firm and crisp.

 

“Let’s go to a more… _secure_ location, shall we?”

 

****

“What is spoken of in this room I hope we can all assume is placed under the highest secrecy?”

 

Brigadier Morstan lit a lamp in the dark of her personal quarters, the light glowing in the pits of her irises like twin fireflies. She spoke in a low tone, almost a whisper, and John felt a prickle at the back of his neck, the realisation that he was being inducted into something quite dangerous, possibly life-threatening. The thought that he was only a newly-minted rookie medic crossed his mind, and he voiced as much with uncertainty, shifting in discomfort.

 

To his surprise, it was Dodge’s voice that came to alleviate his fears. The woman’s dark, close-cropped hair made a fan about her face, shielding whatever expression lurked in her eyes.

“You’re new, but you’ve got some of the best aim I’ve seen in years with a gun, and what’s more, good instincts.”

 

She said this with such conviction that John was for a moment brought short, his mouth left hanging open with unspoken objections rendered moot. Until that point, John wasn’t totally sure Dodge even liked him, and yet here she was recommending his services? What was more, what was a simple lieutenant _doing_ , recommending someone to a higher-up? It didn’t add up.

 

Morstan’s gaze was keen, cutting through John’s confusion.

“I know you must have questions, John. Believe me, they will be answered, more so than you might like.”

 

The army medic’s jaw clenched, eyebrows drawing together in thought. His voice was quiet, but it was filled with a need for answers. Tired and strung out, John was not in the mood to be jerked about.

 

“What is going on?”

 

Instead of answering, Dodge asked the soldier a question. Her arms were braced against Morstan’s side-table, and in the shadow of the lantern she was a silhouette of fire and darkness. Like an ember brought to life.

 

“What do you know about the suicide bomb that occurred today in the weapons barack?”

 

John’s eyes narrowed, but his voice remained steady.

“That it was a member of the rebellion, self-ignition, and that it resulted in far too many casualties than I’m comfortable with.”

 

Morstan breathed sucked air through her teeth, blinking slowly. She was cat-like, poised as if to strike, lithe.

 

“The rebel who blew up the barack was identified by the body. It was the Dragon that you briefly treated, the fire drake who had lost their _**Ochelia.**_ At least, that was what we told him, before he took off.”

 

John felt cold run through him, fingers of ice clutching at his chest His throat bobbed nervously, the earlier dread returning to him.

“What are you saying?”

 

“They left a note: _End in blood, and we too shall end in blood._ ”  Dodge murmured. Morstan put together the rapidly-amalgamating puzzle for John, her voice tight with controlled calm.

 

“It is to my greatest shame that I admit that the English Dragon, called Firenze by his Mistress, was misinformed. The reality of the situation was, his _**Ochelia**_ was recruited by the _**Draski**_ , and was caught during an attempt to assassinate certain government officials, back in London.”

 

John’s eyes were wide, and he felt as if his legs had gone to water.

“Jesus.” He whispered, and because he couldn’t think of anything better to say, uttered it again. _“Jesus.”_

 

Dodge’s voice was uncompromising.

“As punishment for his crimes, his Mate and children were executed, excused as war crimes by another platoon. By the time we arrived, it was too late, and the Dragon had been driven mad by the death of his loved ones. He was completely feral, had nearly torn apart an entire compound on his own from sheer, brute grief and outrage.”

 

Morstan’s voice was quiet, sad.

“We had to put him down, but the damage was done. The Draski had more than enough ammunition to entice Firenze to their side. They’re recruiting, John. Attempting to tear us apart from the inside out.”

 

“The Mole.” John blurted in realisation, and Morstan nodded sharply, a small smile playing on her features. _Pride._

 

“ _Exactly._ We’re currently trying to suss them out, to see how far this goes in the command chain, how much we’ve been compromised.”

 

“Which is where you come in.”

Dodge smoothly interjected, coming around to clap John on the shoulder tersely.

“I’m not a normal recruiter, my job is to pick out potential in the newbies, see which ones might have hope to work in more sensitive operations. I picked you, the moment I saw how well you and your Dragon work together. We need to make sure that our agent’s Dragon won’t betray them, will remain stubbornly loyal until the end. We need someone who’s able to work with new Dragons coming in, someone who _understands_ their thinking.”

 

John’s thoughts were reeling, his tongue nervously darting across his lips. What he was being told made no sense, or rather it made too much sense. He could see the clues now, there and plain as day.

 

The only thing he could think to say was a rather weak joke.

“Well to be fair… you were a shit recruiter anyway.”

 

He thought to himself that the world was actually going to hell when in response, Dodge merely laughed.

When she recovered, Morstan asked the question that was hovering in the air, breathing it into the silence. With it, John felt the ice inside of his chest only grow to fill his blood.

 

“John, believe it or not, my aim in this war is to try and have _everyone_ win, Dragons and Humans _both_. But to do this, we cannot continue this mindless cycle of killing. The _**Draski** _ are a terrorist organisation, bent on destruction and revenge. Before we can make any attempts at reasoning with the authorities, we have to show that Dragons can meld into common society, that they are not all violent, savage beasts. Will you help me, John, help _us?_ ”

 

She said the last bit with earnesty, hands reaching out to clasp John’s in her own. The soldier could feel Morstan’s warmth, read the honesty in her body language.

 

She was really quite pretty, under the seriousness on her face. The thought sent a mixture of pleasure and guilt flushing through his system. Not the time. Not the _time!_

 

What Dodge and Morstan were saying made sense, what was more, it felt right to John. All this time, he had felt guilty, angry at how Dragons were being treated. Watching Sherlock get treated like dirt by others, Molly’s horrible past, hell even the way each Dragon was forced to bow when they saw him. The damn _collars!_ John thought that if he never saw them again, it’d be too soon. The army medic thought about the blood that had covered him earlier that day, and the black smoke that had rose into the night air in thick clouds.

 

When he found his voice once again, it was surprisingly steady.

The soldier had really only one question.

 

“What do you need _me_ for? Specifically?”

  
In response, the brigadier’s grin seemed to only widen, this time in unabashed triumph.


	26. The Dragon And The Egg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there ^_^ new chapter and a new character introduced :) I hope you all like Xavi. 
> 
> Also, I am currently looking for a beta editor for this fic, if you'd be willing to help, I would be eternally grateful!

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Breeding and Eggs (pro-creation):**   _Dragons do not have children easily, and as a result both female and males are capable of breeding. A Dragon will not be able to copulate outside of a Mating Season- or Heat (see page 435 Section F) and so will not usually take another as its Mate outside of season. Though Dragons will have a Mating season when in their natural colonies and tribes- the slavery industry has knocked most Dragon's seasons out of cycle. Without a secure familial magic surrounding then and assuring their egg safety, a Dragon's biology will not make the preparations to bear an egg. Children bear the most of this kind of magic, and so it stands to reason that the more children there are about the more fertile a Dragon will be. A Dragon will gestate an egg in its true form for approximately a month, then the egg itself will mature a further three months outside of the mother's body. During this time, Dragons are incredibly protective of their young. One would not advise getting between even the weakest of Dragons and their clutch. Different Dragons breed a different amount of eggs, fire Dragons bearing 3-5 on most occasions, whereas Chinese will and Northerns will likely only bear 1-2 (See page 555 for details)._

 

 

The training took away what little rest John found in the night. What precious few moments of rest he had once been able to find were now filled with late-night sessions, learning the geography of the land and studying intently the history of the monarchy. What little sleep he did find were interrupted by nightmares, if not from him then from Sherlock, screaming themselves awake in the dark. It was a brutal cycle, one that John couldn’t seem to quite adjust to. When he wasn’t training, studying or sleeping, he was treating the wounded. His hands more often appeared red to him than they did tan.

 

That was another thing, his body was beginning to change. Little scrapes, cuts and bruises had become the norm for the young soldier, especially around his knees and elbows. The sun had burned his skin pink, peeling it away to reveal a tone that was nut-brown. Muscles that before had been well-trained but inexperienced for battle had now hardened, and John’s blonde hair had turned nearly white with the sun. Sweat became a constant, sticky feeling along the small of his back and his thighs.

 

Sherlock’s skin didn’t tan, but it was prone to burning if he forgot to apply sunscreen and make an effort to take a break during the hottest parts of the day. The Dragon’s scales could be used as an offering of shade if he was desperate, the sail-like membranes tougher than mere skin. It was so warm, that John often didn’t even realise that back in London fall was fast approaching, the shedding of trees sending small children so very far away outside, running to make leaf piles. Dragon and soldier alike began becoming used to the desert and its harsh beauty, and with that ease John forgot steadily about his home, finding a better grounding in Sherlock’s quiet presence. He instead found familiarity in cold, austere nights under a star-filled sky.

 

Training also became more difficult with his squadron. Rumours had a habit of circulating like infectious bacteria, and soon John found the hot, piercing stares of eyes that thought he wouldn’t notice their staring, distracting and irritating him by itching underneath his skin like a rash. For nearly a week he endured it with stoic patience, not  acknowledging the careful side-glances Rory would give him as he ate, or the measured looks Captain Benson would steal in the breaths between firing practice. The nights filled John with anxiety before he slept, and he found his nails chewed down to the beds without conscious effort. Sherlock consequently took to sitting up with his partner, listening intently as John read aloud, quietly sounding out words that twisted into the Dragon’s ear and left him with strange and embellished dreams of emboldened heroes and beings that once roamed the earth but were now long dead. The tales mixed strangely with snowy paths, cold chains, and a child’s voice singing over the screams of Sherlock’s kin being slaughtered in the Great North. Memory or illusion, the Dragon himself could not hope to say.

 

It soon came to be that John’s squadron was put on patrol outside the compound, directed by Wilkes to measure out the army’s borders. Not a particularly dangerous task, and one that John had been subjected to before a few times now with his companions. Yet it was the first ride in the jeep that had ever felt so tense, no one quite willing to make conversation or maintain eye-contact with John save for Murray. Bill mercifully seemed to pick up on the situation, and kept up a cheerful stream of mindless babble of his time spent on other postings, occasionally pausing to interject with a question or confirmation to his Dragon to make sure he wasn’t embellishing too deeply. Rin’s golden scales glinted in the desert sun every now and then, dazzling John’s eyes and lulling him into a kind of hypnotic calm. She spoke rarely aloud, but her voice was comforting in his head, and she was clever enough to even keep wit with Sherlock. This was rather fortunate, as the Northern Dragon had a habit of getting tetchy on long drives.

John suffered with a smile through an hour’s worth conversation about bees- all mentally spoken as now and then one of the other Dragons interjected with their own opinions. Across from him, Bill wore a similarly pained expression. Though being a Thrall had some perks- being subjected to such banal topics that seemed to endlessly fascinate the Dragons wasn’t one of them.

 

It was when Bensen pulled the breaks on the truck that conversation fell abruptly silent, Sherlock’s senses alerting John to the fact that they were nowhere near their usual borders. Something was wrong, and the silence of the sand outside made the hair on the back of John’s neck prickle with discomfort. It felt as if the wind itself were dead. Beside him, Rory shifted uneasily, darting a glance over to Marley.

“What’s… going on…?”

To everyone’s surprise, it was Rin who responded. Her head was tilted to listen, and a moment before Benson called them, she spoke.

“We seem to have company.”

 

The figures were outlined on the horizon, at first ink-blot shadows against the sun set high in the sky. They came with the slow, stilted movement of the wounded. At first, John feared the worst as he stepped out of the jeep. The idea of the _**Draski**_ targeting a village wouldn’t have been a surprise, but with a crowd so small, the soldier feared the dead-count would be staggering. Images of the explosion at the compound, of the sea of red soldiers flashed before John’s eyes, and he licked his lips nervously even as he darted a glance at Bill. His friend’s deep green eyes were serious and heavy, and he squinted into the sun as if he could glean something past the haze of heat surrounding the figures in the distance. As they came closer, Benson’s voice spoke into their nervous amalgamation of silence.

“Everyone, armed and ready. Don’t attack on sight, but don’t let your guard down. John, Bill, if there’s a Dragon amongst their ranks, give the signal. Rory, you and your dragon will send a signal if we’re attacked.” The captain’s Dragon Farrow shifted as he spoke, becoming his true form- a mass of green scales and teeth. As one, the squadron moved closer, preparing for any kind of confrontation.

It didn’t take long for a quiet hum of static in the air to alert John to the fact that among the group before them (and he could see now, there were about five or six of them in total) there was indeed a Dragon. The crackling sound of a stranger’s thoughts at work ran over his skin like the lick of fire, and he wordlessly raised his hand, preparing himself for a battle. Except before Benson could give the order, Bill’s voice rang out, his hand darting out to point out what was fast becoming more and more clear.

 

“ _Wait!_ There’s a white flag.”

Sure enough, as the small group moved into the shade of a large dune of sand, a banner flapped in the wind made from an old robe. It was dingy, torn and bloodstained, but its colour was unmistakable, pure white under the grime like winter’s snow. It stood out, held in the hands of a ragged looking man at the head of the crowd who walked with a stilted gait. The group stopped about ten feet away from the soldiers, and said man regarded John’s squadron with tired brown eyes that glittered keenly under bushy dark brows. When he spoke, it was in flowing Pashto.

 

Marley spoke then, having the most experience with the language.

“He’s saying they’re refugees and slaves, from a small village. He says his name’s Kabir, and that the _ **Draski**_ burned their town for supplies.” She paused then, listening with a furled brow as the man continued to speak. “He’s asking for help, as some of his slaves and people are wounded and hungry.”

Benson’s grey-blue eyes roved over the refugees, and beside him, his Dragon stiffened suddenly. The next moment, a rumbling growl emerged from the creature’s chest, a warning that in the next moment made sense as Sherlock hissed John’s name through his teeth. The young soldier realised why a moment later. Stepping forward from the crowd-or rather pushed from it, a Dragon with a simple chain collar and a trembling countenance emerged. He was filthy as the others, his dark hair sticking up on end in clumps of matted sweat and grime, and dark eyes ticked nervously and widely even as he stood.

 

Yet that was not what was most remarkable about the creature. What drew John’s gaze rather was the makeshift sling that crossed over the creature’s bare form, dirty linen holding a prize that glittered in the afternoon sun with dazzling beauty. An egg, one nearly the height of a man’s knee, was being cradled by the creature’s skinny arms. It was a slender creature, delicate in bone structure and size, and seemed far too small in human form to have born such a massive egg. The Dragon, looking not much older than a child themselves, let out a weak hiss of wordless protest and betrayal upon being shoved into line of view. Beside the creature Kabir spoke, gesturing in a way that made the hair on the back of John’s neck stand on end, an uncomfortable tightness lodging its way in his throat. Marley’s voice continued to translate, confirming the sinking feeling in the young soldier’s stomach.

“He says as a sign of good-will his people have captured a member of the _**Draski**_ **.** The creature was apparently left behind when they shot it down from the sky. They found out it was… carrying only after.”

“We can’t have it enter camp.” Bill blurted out suddenly, his voice hard and unwavering and breaking the quiet fear beginning to niggle at John’s mind. “Dragon biology is cyclical, and it’s affected by hormones in the air. The Dragon’s carrying- and as a result he’ll set everyone else’s Dragons off into a heat within a five mile radius, about. The last thing we need is an outbreak of pregnancy within our ranks.” Sherlock stepped forward then, his gaze carefully lowered to the ground as he spoke aloud, much to John’s private surprise.

“Lord Murray is right, sir. Children amongst our kind are… rare yet they are prone to occur in large bursts of copulation.” There was something desperate in the Northern Dragon’s eyes, something that John saw but didn’t understand. He felt as though his companion had an ulterior motive, and found himself fervently wishing that whatever it was, it would not get them into trouble. Captain Bension frowned at Sherlock, taking in his words seriously. His voice was cool and efficient, but he might as well have said the worst possible thing.

“Then we kill it and its offspring. Either way, alone it’s doomed to die in this desert.”

 

It was as if a bomb had gone off. Simultaneously, John both heard in his mind and saw each Dragon physically and mentally recoil from the order, as if they had all been tazed with an electric shock. Piper visibly snarled, curling her lips back to reveal inhumanly sharp teeth. Even Sherlock, normally so outwardly calm towards other soldiers when not actively threatened, looked repulsed.

The Dragon, standing still and clutching its egg like its life depended on it, all but howled with displeasure. Though it did not understand English, it could see the intent in the Captain’s eyes and the scent of intent in the air. It curled itself into the sand as if shielding its child from an unseen blow, and John saw then that the village people had chained it to a massive weight by its ankle, preventing it from flying. The sight filled him with an unholy sort of rage, for an instant his mind reading the Dragon’s. Fear and blood painted the back of his eyelids with the creature’s thoughts. John spoke without thinking.

“You can’t! Your own Dragon will not respect you if you do.” It was a harsh rebuttal, and as soon as the words passed his lips John flushed, suddenly aware that the entire company was looking at him, the Dragons with a cautious sort of hope and the humans with blinking incomprehension. Beside him, Sherlock shifted, blue eyes flicking over to Benson as if waiting for an attack. His thoughts trickled into John’s head quietly.

_**John. What are you doing?** _

 

The soldier carried on after a breath of air, licking his lips nervously even as some of his confidence softened into care.

“The Dragons… It’s a cultural matter. They value children because they’re a sign of fertility, growth. To kill one… there’s a term for it in the native tongue… I can’t remember it…” From the village crowd, the Dragon then lifted its dirty head. Eyes slitted coldly, it spat the word at Benson’s feet, hatred seething in its gaze. The word was guttural, and it sent the Dragons into unease in both their thoughts and body-language, many looking away from the villagers and down at the sand at their feet.

_**“Raksha-Hurgowhl!”** _

Sherlock, murmured the translation aloud, his rumbling voice glossing over the words as if they were slicked with blood.

“Egg-Snatcher.” His hands at his sides tightened into fists, his blank face as good as a final judgement even as he looked up and at Captain Benson, awaiting orders. John knew that look, and was thankful that for once he was not under the overbearing weight of it. Sherlock did not look people in the eye often, but when he did, his gaze could look through a man, as if turning his insides into water and pulling anything of worth out in the process. It was not an easy gaze to match, though Benson tried valiantly to. In the end however, his gaze ultimately flicked to John.

 

“What would you have me do then, Watson? We cannot bring him back to camp, not even for questioning. Within the day, our Dragons would be useless. To leave the creature out here is equally foolish, you know that. Not to mention that even if we were to care for the creature, after the hatching of his egg he would be brought into questioning, his child possibly sold into slavery or used amongst our own ranks.” His gaze was earnest, and John bit his lip, considering the problem. While it was true that the Dragon couldn’t set foot on the compound, there was nothing that stated he could not be cared for off of it, perhaps in one of the old storage sheds no longer being used after the recent attacks from the Draski. John proposed as much, but Benson was already shaking his head, negating his suggestion.

“The Dragon will still require care and watching, John. Even if you were to do it yourself without Sherlock, your Dragon would still be around the hormones the Dragon creates because they would leave imprints on your clothing and skin.”

 

It was Bill then who spoke once more, bringing forward an idea that John’s eyes lighting up in hope. “Then we have a barren Dragon care for the creature. John, your friend; Mike Stamford owns one, yes? Meriath I think it is? She could help you, and afterwards make sure that you’re clean enough to return to the compound, since she can smell the hormones but isn’t affected by them.”

“ _Molly,_ yes.” Of _course_ , Molly. It was perfect, and John smiled in thanks to his friend, who allowed a small, wolfish grin to alight his features.

Benson sighed, and it was a long, drawn out exhalation that spoke of endless patience and overstrained hours. He spared one more glance at his Dragon; Farrow, before casting his gaze to the huddling mass by Kabir’s feet. His expression was deeply unimpressed, even as his shoulders slumped in acquiescence. When he spoke, it was with the finality of a man knowing he had lost.

“Do as you like, then. For the rest of the villagers, we’ll take them to the infirmary and kitchens. The children amongst them look hungry, and I could do with a meal myself.”

Marley spoke the orders, translating them for Kabir and the others. The old man nodded agreeably at whatever was said, turning to speak to the villagers behind him. As one, John saw the mass of survivors amalgamate, separating themselves from the Dragon that still knelt clutching its egg to its chest.

 

Even as John’s squadron began to move out, encircling the villagers protectively, he and Sherlock stayed behind, standing before the haggard Dragon. The creature seemed to barely acknowledge their presence, utterly absorbed in the shining, glittering surface of its most precious prize. When it did bother to look up, it was only to fix John with an unblinking, tired gaze. He spoke into the soldier’s mind, a voice that was tinged with uncertainty as much as acceptance.

 

**_What is to become of me? Of mine own?_ **

****

To John’s surprise, it was Sherlock who knelt in the sand, answering for him. The Northern Dragon’s pale blue eyes looked into the stranger’s with an approximation of kindness, the kind that John had yet to see on his companion’s face.

__

_**Your child will be safe. Of that much, I give my word. John... he is good. A good man.** _

 

Strangely enough, that simple promise seemed to let the dragon relax, finally breaking his dam of silence to cry quietly relieved tears against the shell of the egg. His tears left streaks of cleanliness through the dirt smearing his face.

 

****

As it turned out, the Dragon was only the Human equivalent of someone in their early twenties, and his name was Xavi. He was a Chinese Dragon, and had joined the _**Draski** _ not willingly, but out of fear. Apparently, he had been on a boat shipping slaves to the North when the rebels had liberated the ship- in exchange demanding allegiance of the slaves held inside. Being young and heavily pregnant at the time, Xavi had believed it would be the only way they would let him survive. This he explained to John animatedly even as the army doctor got to work by carefully scrubbing the grime out of his new patient’s curls, working apart the knots that had been created from both sweat and blood and sand. The water under his fingers came away tinged red with it, and John found that Xavi was much more used to human contact than Sherlock had been when he’d first come into his care. This was explained as the young Dragon chattered away, becoming much like a duckling following its mother in the way he so quickly attached himself to John. It was clear he was used to affection.

_**I had a very lovely Master, as far as Masters go. For a long time I lived with a very old man far out in Delhi, named Madhu. I played with his grandchildren and in return he gave me dates and honey and told me about his adventures. I was like a child to him…** _

__

Tilting his head back over the bucket John used, the Dragon hummed in quiet pleasure. The ex-army doctor couldn’t help but smile, as even for the duration of his cleaning Xavi had refused to let go of his egg. It was clutched to his chest, and he ran tender fingers over it now and again even as from under fanned lashes he took in what would be his home for the foreseeable future. The shed wasn’t much- an old weapons storage unit, now filled with soft straw that would normally be used to trade with the people in nearby villages. It was no larger than a small classroom truthfully, and Xavi’s collar had been chained to metal loops that normally would have picketed horses. The length of it meant he could walk the perimeter of his holding cell, but that he could not go far outside. This didn’t seem to particularly bother the optimistic creature, and he hummed joyfully as John rinsed soap from his hair with gentle precision.

 

“It sounds like you loved Madhu’s family very much.” John murmured, and Xavi nodded, a small nostalgic smile crossing his lips.

**_Yes, my lord. I did. My family had lived with Madhu’s in harmony for quite some time, and though we were not equal, we worked together as if we were. I was very sad at his passing. He was a good man and had raised good children, and I pray that his beliefs came true, that he reincarnated into something beautiful._ **

****

“What happened? Why couldn’t you stay with his family?” John asked tentatively, as he reached for a drying cloth. The young Dragon’s eyes shuttered closed briefly, and his hands tightened together over the hub of his egg, entwining.

 

**_Madhu had inheritance. It was why he could afford me. But his inheritance only lasted for so long, and really his family was quite poor. They had no choice but to sell me, though his daughter Amma tried to make sure I went to a good home. They sold me to a relative, not knowing that he would fall sick in the coming year and be forced to sell me again. He was… not as selective about his choosing of new Masters._ **

****

The Chinese Dragon bowed its head then, and John’s eyes flicked to the creature’s back. Much like Sherlock, Xavi bore marks of cruel handling. Deep scarring gouged his back, and scars ran white and whip-like along his thin upper arms. Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, John spoke softly.

“I’m surprised you trust me, then. My… partner, he didn’t trust me for some time because he’d been treated so badly. He tried to freeze me, first time I met him. Some days, I still think he doesn’t. He’s… difficult. To read. But you don't seem to be angry, not at anything.”

At this, Xavi turned to look at John in surprise. He was so shocked, that the young Dragon forgot it wasn’t customary to look at someone of a higher station than themselves directly. He shook his dark curls, still damp and plastered to his forehead, as if negating John’s claim.

**_The reason I trust you is because your Dragon trusts you. You have a Bond, my lord. One that I could see, and one that I pray mine own child would be so lucky to find. I choose not to be angry, my lord. But not out of kindness. No, i choose not to be because I need my anger, to protect my child. Had you tried to kill her today, I am not sure I would have been able to restrain myself. My egg is my world, so I hold my anger inside of me._ **

 

John started, looking at the earnest Dragon before him. The tattoo on his arm was almost always covered- he often forgot that other Dragons could sense it. He found a small flush creeping up the back of his neck, burning the tips of his ears. Xavi’s dark eyes were very wide, almost deer-like, as they took in his shock.

**_You do not know the meaning of such a marking, do you? How precious it is, and how treasured you are?_ **

Wordlessly, helplessly, John shook his head. The young Dragon turned then in the small wooden chair he had been seated upon, looking up at John from the resting place his chin found on the chair’s back. His egg glowed green in his arms, and with one hand Xavi reached out, stroking along one side of John’s cheek. The army doctor found himself unable to move or speak, shocked at the overly familiar touch and the strange prickling he felt along his spine. When Xavi spoke, it was little more than a murmur.

**_You will know, when you go back to your tent tonight. You will come to realise John Watson, just how much you mean to him._ **

It was a promise, and one John didn’t completely understand. Still, the Chinese Dragon would say no more on the topic, and only continued to chatter away about the things he had seen and the places he’d travelled.

 

As John turned to go and fetch Molly from her outside sentry duty so that he might shower and go to bed, the army doctor couldn’t help but pause. He wondered to himself if Xavi had a mate, had once had brothers and sisters. If he could remember his own mother. Yet that was not in the end what he stopped to ask.

“...Xavi? Do you…Does your… egg… have a name?”

Curled up as he was in a small nest of hay, the Dragon smiled. His human form shifted before John’s eyes, becoming a silver Dragon with flecks of deepest aqua blue around his eyes and down his legs. His egg was cradled to him even as he purred in sleepy contentment.

 

_**Nalini. Lotus flower. She will be so beautiful, my lord. My greatest treasure. A new start, a chance for hope.** _

With that, the great Dragon slept, soft breaths stirring the hay with a gentle breeze. John left, feeling a twisting mixing of emotions that he had no idea how to handle, or how to address.  

  
  



	27. A Secret Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yayyyy new chapter~! and beta read too by the lovely TPurr! ^_^ Thank you so much for editing this into something legible! :D I hope everyone enjoys!

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Heat and Hormones (Mating):** _Even if a Dragon is not surrounded by other Dragons currently going through the mating process, they can still sometimes be affected by the hormones given off if they wish to be Bonded. A Dragon's hormones will increase levels of estrogen and progesterone, causing a heightened emotional state such as fits of crying, anger, attachment or an increased sex drive (see page 675 section A). To a Human this sudden change may be jarring, and one might fear for their Dragon's well-being, however it is only likely to occur should the Dragon in question already be considering selecting a Mate._

 

Sherlock paced in his tent, the unaccounted for fluttering of nerves in his stomach both unwelcome and strange. It twisted inside of him, leaving him feeling both nauseated and off-balance. He couldn’t seem to make himself sit still, not without being completely sure of John’s safety, his instincts running unusually high. 

 

The Dragon refused to name the fuming emotion inside him, twisting like a serpent winding its way about his heart: Jealousy whispered in Sherlock’s head, stupid and pointless and distressing. It had to be the hormones Xavi was letting off currently, the scent of motherhood bringing out Sherlock’s more possessive nature. Yes, he decided to himself, it had to be the warm, summery smell of Heat that echoed in memory over the new Dragon’s skin, making Sherlock’s own blood boil in kind. It was in this way he justified it when, biting his lip, Sherlock found his own hands smoothing over his hips, ducking under the belt of his trousers. Sex wasn’t something Sherlock was interested in, having been used too many times, and intimacy was laughable, but release? That, the Dragon could allow himself to crave. Sherlock let himself still his pacing, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment in the curling tendrils of arousal. 

 

He chose not to think on how as he touched himself a familiar face came to mind, nor on how he could so very easily see himself on his knees, sinking to the ground and pressing himself close to sun-tanned legs, stocky thighs. Not out of obligation or force, but out of something far, far more dangerous. 

 

****

 

Molly and John walked back to the barracks together, neither of them saying a word for a while, unsure and awkward around one another. It wasn’t that John wasn’t fond of the quiet Fire Dragon, rather he found her sometimes very… shy. He didn’t want to overstep himself, make her uncomfortable. In doing so, the young soldier unwittingly created a barrier between them of awkward inquiries about the weather and truly British attempts to avoid any truthful or meaningful conversation. 

 

The silence permeated between the two of them like a thick cloak, until finally John could stand it no longer. Cracking a vaguely nervous smile, he tried to make his tone light, friendly. 

“That Xavi tells lots of great stories though, seems like he’s seen a lot of places.”

“It does seem that way, my lord.” Molly chirped, a startled flush crawling across her own face before she looked hastily at the ground before her. The military uniform seemed to dwarf the Dragon, making her seem almost childlike in appearance. Coupled with her dark hair pulled up into a high ponytail, John found himself wondering just how old Molly could be, or for that matter how Dragons even aged. The idea that Sherlock, Molly or even Rin could be older than him seemed ridiculous. There was a kind of agelessness amongst Dragonkind, and come to think of it, the soldier couldn’t even recall having even seen a slave that looked much older than thirty. He hadn’t realised he had voiced this thought out loud, but he did once he looked over to find Molly had stiffened quietly. Her eyes stayed carefully trained towards the ground. 

 

“I… Age in human years is… restrictive, My Lord…”

“John.” John murmured, causing the Dragon to jump slightly. She chanced a slightly askance look at him through her lashes, a pretty flush crawling along the back of her neck. Tentatively, Molly tried the taste of John’s name in her mouth. It felt warm to her, steady. Dependable. “John. To humans, years move so quickly, to Dragons it is at once… faster and timeless.” When John didn’t outright laugh at her, or berate her, Molly seemed to gather some steel within herself and straightened minutely. Her chin was set in a hard line of determination. “Our kind… have been enslaved for nearly a _hundred years_ now, John. To our kind, that is normally the blink of an eye… yet for your kind… there is hardly any human _left_ directly responsible for our capture. We have Hatchlings who have grown up knowing nothing but cages and torment… and yet there are spoiled human babies sitting on the backs of our mothers, taking the place of our children… It has been a long, long hundred years John, and I am by my kind’s standards, not very old. We… there are not many left, who grow old. Especially the women of our kind...” She blinked then, and in the semi-darkness of dusk, John saw a wetness in the timid Dragon’s eyes. “I was only a child myself, when I was taken. It seems so long ago…And even here we aren’t safe. Many Dragons stay in our tents at night, frightened of humans. Frightened of the fact that we cannot refuse them service, if they see fit to demand it.”

John felt his own emotions bubble in turmoil, causing his left hand to tighten minutely. He hadn’t thought of it in that way, the idea of forcing another into sexual acts repulsive to him and inherently against his instincts. The thought of Sherlock, Molly or anyone really feeling unsafe, even in a military base surrounded by barbed wire and guns... It was with a rough voice he asked to distract himself.

“How old are you then, in human years?”

Molly’s smile was soft, sad. She looked up at John quietly, her hands held together, tightening into a bundle of nervous twigs, white-knuckled. 

“When I was first taken, I was the equivalent of a twelve year old. Now… about eighteen, twenty at most. It’s difficult, to make an accurate timeline. It’s hard to tell time, in the clubs that my old master used to take me to.” 

 

“And… you’ve always…” John trailed off uncomfortably, glancing at the mark on Molly’s shoulder. It stood out, a lighter patch of skin that never tanned, and seemed silvery like scales. The young girl flushed if possible even more darkly in what could only be described as deepest shame. Her voice was tight and quiet, but it spat with a venom that John didn’t think Molly capable of, coming from somewhere deep and shaking within the Dragon. 

 _“No.”_ Her voice held in it a note of finality, effectively ending the conversation as quickly as it had begun. 

 

John spent the rest of the walk feeling like an idiot, and wishing he could take back words that were still only half-formed on his own tongue, lingering in the back of his throat like acid and making him feel only disgust for the human race. Disgust, and cold, cold fear.

 

****

Upon John’s return to his tent, several things became evident to his notice almost immediately. The first, and most immediate was Sherlock. The Dragon all but crowded him upon his return, glazed eyes narrowed in focus that quickly became just a little too close for comfort. John found himself backing up even as Sherlock invaded the previous barriers that they had wordlessly at some point agreed upon, the Dragon inhaling deeply along the line of John’s neck, breath warm and slightly sweet. It took John a second to remember Xavi’s words and touch, echoing in the back of his mind. 

_You will know, when you go back to your tent tonight. You will come to realise John Watson, just how much you mean to him._

 

When a protective, predatory growl rumbled from Sherlock’s chest John jumped, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. The Dragon’s eyes were narrowed to slits, reptilian and cold, and John startled as he felt his companion’s tail wrap itself about his right leg possessively. Sherlock’s voice was positively fuming. 

“He _touched_ you.” There was no mistaking the enraged, jealous tone in the Dragon’s voice, and John didn’t have a chance to explain before he found the backs of his knees hitting Sherlock’s cot, his balance over-toppling. It was instinctive that the soldier reached out, but unfortunate that the nearest thing to John happened to be one very angry Dragon. 

 

John found himself pinned to the mattress, Sherlock atop of him. The Dragon’s eyes glowed like fox fire from the overhead shade of John’s cot, but the soldier didn’t get a chance to see much of them as Sherlock’s face was soon tucked into the crook of his neck, rubbing repeatedly in a way that could only be described as nuzzling. John, hesitant to put a stop to it given the fact that Sherlock’s teeth were only inches away from his jugular, held his breath, very conscious of the human-like weight of his friend on top of him, of the warmth that Sherlock gave off. It had now been several months since John had dated anyone, and truth be told, it was difficult to find a private place to wank when you were constantly on your feet and moving about. Many soldiers gave up the illusion of privacy, instead choosing to get off in public, sometimes with other soldiers, and a few even with their Dragons. John had made a few hasty orgasms last him for a couple of weeks now, but the combination of abstinence and the way that Sherlock was pressed against him, slowly dragging his hips along his own, made John’s cock take a stirring interest. 

 

John found himself hard in his uniform, a steadily crawling blush making its way along the back of his neck, even as he struggled to dislodge Sherlock from his current position. A voice in the back of the soldier’s mind screamed the wrongness of this act, given John’s position of power over Sherlock in most situations, as well as the fleeting dirtiness of it. There was something illicit in being so aroused even while completely clothed, Sherlock’s burning blue eyes only meeting John’s in the pause of breath before the Dragon shifted to the other side of John’s neck, scenting him and rubbing against him like a great cat in heat. Except this was not the amorous affections of lovemaking, no. Sherlock was all but rutting against John, claiming him in an act of dominance that was both out of character and somewhat unsettling. 

“What the hell is wrong with you? Sherlock  ow, don’t do that! - Sherlock you tosser, what the fuck is wrong?” 

The Dragon only let out a whine that was as confused as John felt in that moment, and the soldier suspected that Sherlock wasn’t completely sure himself what was wrong, only that it was and he was trying to fix it. This however, this aggressive behaviour and determination to drive John crazy in both confusion and sexual frustration needed to stop now, or John was fairly sure he was going to manage to get off in his pants. He was still above that level of depravity. At least, he hoped. 

 

It wasn’t until John managed to wriggle free an arm, grab Sherlock’s chin and force the Dragon to look at him that John realised that Sherlock’s gaze was hurt, looking at John reproachfully as if he were some stranger, something lost and precious. John didn’t understand, not until the Dragon plaintively repeated “You let him touch you. But you’re mine.” It was then that the soldier realised that it was less something to do with a Dragon’s nature, and more to do with Sherlock’s own emotions. John privately suspected that it was as foreign to his friend as it was to John himself. 

Still, he had to _try._

 

“Sherlock…it’s my _job_ to look after Xavi right now. You know that… I’m still here, I’m still… yours. Your friend.”

“I _know_ that.” John could feel the way in which Sherlock bristled, even if his voice sounded rather small and pathetic. The Dragon sat up the tiniest bit, looking down at John and paling a bit when he realised their positions. Sherlock’s scales- once stained seething acid-green- were now becoming a sort of blush tone. The soldier found the sight peculiar, as normally the Dragon’s scales didn’t deviate much into shades of red. The fact that he even knew that fact alone should have been a testament to John’s devotion to Sherlock. It was beginning to get unsettling, really. 

“If you know that, then why this? Why am I lying here pinned underneath you like you’re some great, terrible creature protecting its hoard? I’m here, Sherlock, and I’ll come back. _Always_ , yeah? Xavi’s not going to change that.”

Sherlock flushed, and John knew then that he had said something right because the Dragon looked away and mumbled defensively

“It’s the hormones… stupid things. _Stupid_ sentiment.” 

 

His tail thrashed restlessly then, and John found himself abruptly released. Sherlock stood with lightning-quick movements, scowling at nothing even as he backed himself towards the entrance, a rabbit caught between crosshairs. It hadn’t been John’s intention, but it was clear from Sherlock’s expression that the soldier had hit a nerve. Through stiff lips, the Dragon apologised before ducking outside into the cool evening air, leaving John with a hard-on as the least of his ever-piling worries and fears.

 

****

Sherlock ran, because it was the only thing he seemed to know to do when he was confronted with things he did not understand and could not know. It came to him with an instinctive pull, tightening in his gut and leaving his own breath ragged. He gasped, unsure of where he was running, only knowing that in the dark his own shadow cast long and black along the desert floor. The stars were just beginning to peek out from the plum-coloured sky, seeming to stare down at him accusingly. All the while the Dragon felt his own thoughts swirl noisily in his own head, a repeated mantra of stupid. 

 

He was a _fool._ Sherlock was a bloody fool for doing what he had just done, for coming close to admitting what he almost did. For an instant, just an instant, John had looked at him… really looked. For an instant, Sherlock had forgotten his place, his _rank_ … The Dragon’s running slowed, along with his heartbeat, and his own fingers found the collar fastened to his neck. The cold metal seeped into his skin, numbing his panic into shame. For a moment… Sherlock had forgotten that John was human, and had wanted nothing more than to wipe away Xavi’s scent, to permanently bite that pale column of neck and ensure that John could not be taken from his own hands… 

For a moment, Sherlock had considered a **_Bond._**

 

The word shivered in the Dragon’s mind, and Sherlock shuddered in kind. Illegal, illicit, and unwanted. That was what a Bond was. Nothing but inconvenience, and so easy to see, the physical manifestations telling. John would have suffered terribly for Sherlock’s one moment of weakness, and the thought made the Dragon’s stomach twist in knots. 

 

A voice from his past came to him then, echoing dimly in his mind:

_Caring is not an advantage._

The voice felt like a long-forgotten dream, covered in drifts of falling snow. For an instant, Sherlock thought he saw not the dozens of barracks lined in orderly rows, but the jagged edge of a mountain, and he felt the echo of a wind that was too cold for Afghanistan, far too cold. A man looked down to him, his watery eyes kind and blue-grey. His hair was salt and pepper-streaked, and the paint that marked his face told his title: King. The image felt ringed in fire and smoke. When he blinked, it was gone. 

 

Sherlock didn’t have time to reflect upon the image however, as he came to realise that there were voices ahead. His panic momentarily receding for curiosity, the Dragon crept forward, a part of his thoughts categorizing the voices as recognisable. Molly’s voice was small and fearful, though Sherlock could tell in the shadow of the tent behind which he was hiding she was striving to hide it. The other voice, cocky and loud and brutish, made Sherlock’s upper lip curl into a snarl of contempt. Sebastian’s tone was cajoling, as if he were chastising a small child. 

 

“Come now… I’ll make it worth your while if you don’t tell. No one’ll do anything even if you do… Just a peek, that’s all I want.”

“M-my Master wanted me to go straight to my bunk.” Molly quavered, in her voice a note of steel. Sherlock carefully peered around the corner of the tent, his vision equipped for nocturnal endeavours. What he saw sent a careful rage broiling through him. Sebastian had pinned Molly to the wall of the Mess hall, his larger frame holding her in place. Though the Fire Dragon could easily fight him, Sherlock knew immediately that to do so threatened a shock to Molly’s collar. In Wilkes’ right hand was the remote, casually being toyed with. The man’s voice was casual, but cold. 

“He can wait a mo’ I think. Probably gets no action out of you anyway, Stamford’s too much of a wuss to demand something. No. Bet you’re good in bed too, read your file. Used to be part of the pleasure clubs? Learned a thing or two I bet…” His left hand touched her face then, and with Molly’s flinch Sherlock found himself moving. It was with lightning-quick movement that the Dragon lunged, grabbing Wilkes’ wrist and twisting it savagely behind his back. The man yelped, the sound turning into a shriek of pain as the Dragon leaned into the hold, forcing Wilkes to drop his remote. Sherlock looked at Molly even as he did so, his voice harsh and snarling in Dragon-Tongue, eyes blazing wildly.

**_“Ashat!”_ **

 

The Fire Dragon, still quivering took off like a shot, her dark eyes huge and fearful. Her voice trilled in his mind, a bird quickly fading with her form.

_Don’t do anything stupid! I’ll get John, Sherlock, just wait! I’ll get John!_

Sherlock’s voice was grim. Quiet.

**_John can’t help… not if I do what I’m going to do._ **

Molly was too far away to hear.

 

Sherlock watched a moment longer before he focused on Wilkes before him, a rumbling growl echoing from deep in his throat. Beneath him the sergeant squirmed, gasping in pain even as he spat curses. His eyes were bright with fury. 

“Stand-ah! Stand down you fucking cur! Fucking hell stand down or I’ll have you put down I swear on my fucking life!” 

The threat fell flat however, particularly as it only made Sherlock’s grip tighten, his bloodlust deepen more. He was in the mood for a fight, and threat of death really didn’t have much effect on him. The Dragon smiled, but it was not a friendly thing. His voice was a purr even as he covered Sebastian’s mouth with his free hand, dangerously edged. 

“I’ve had a rather tumultuous day and you’ve hurt one of my… _friends._ One of the few I have. Don’t try to lie and say you weren’t going to, _it doesn’t work._ So, instead I suggest you don’t struggle and instead offer the one thing that might make this better.”

 

Sebastian grit his teeth until they looked like they were in danger of cracking, his eyes narrowed in hatred. Spitting on the ground, he growled 

“What?”

“I want to know what Brigadier Morstan wants with John Watson. I want to know _why_ she recruited him.” Sherlock murmured. Yet Sebastian merely looked at Sherlock blankly, confusion etched into his expression. His voice was hoarse, pressured by pain. 

“I… I don’t know. I didn’t even know she had recruited him for anything. I _promise!”_ Sebastian insisted, crying out lowly when Sherlock tightened his grip in threat. The Dragon’s thoughts spun, trying to make sense of it. So, Wilkes didn’t know. Which meant that the operation was much more hush hush than Sherlock had originally thought. It was in that moment that Sherlock realised what he was doing, exactly, and all but flung Sebastian to the ground as hard as he could, bolting at the last instant. 

 

The fact was, Sherlock had no control. And though that settled in him like a heavy stone in his gut, the Dragon knew it like a brand imprinted into the back of his neck. So long as he wore a collar, he would not ever be truly free. 

 

****

The next morning dawned for John with no return from Sherlock, and Dodge standing in his tent with her hands on her hips, kicking the side of his bed. Her expression was mildly annoyed as John sat up, blinking blearily into the dark of twilight. 

“Took you long enough. I’ve been kicking your bed for the past twenty minutes.”

John yawned, grumpily thinking that he’d have been more alert if he hadn’t been awake all night wondering where the hell Sherlock was. He didn’t say his excuses aloud however, months in the army training into him that ultimately, reason didn’t much matter to his higher-ups. Scrubbing a hand over his face, John blinked blearily up at Dodge, feeling the dryness of his own mouth as he asked 

“What’s going on?”

Dodge’s brown eyes glittered in the darkness. Her voice was cool. 

“You’re needed for an expedition. Morstan’s orders. C’mon, I expect you to be dressed in an hour.”

“Sherlock’s not back yet.” John objected, looking at the empty cot beneath his own. The finicky Dragon must have stayed out all night, a thought that made John’s insides twist with both annoyance and a hearty dose of guilt. He shouldn’t have pushed so hard… 

 

Dodge’s expression was unsympathetic, her arms crossed over her chest. 

“You can’t control your Dragon, he doesn’t accompany you for these missions. If he’s not back by the time the sun rises, you’re going out on your own with the other men for this mission. Get dressed. Murray’s part of the group Morstan’s recruited and he’s already on his feet. We meet at the gate. Don't worry, if all goes well you’ll be back in time to care for that fugitive Dragon tonight.”

 

Sure enough, Bill’s cot was empty. John was forced to push away the rising anxiety bubbling up his throat over Sherlock, jumping down from his bunk to search for his uniform. Without another word Dodge turned and left, tent flaps billowing behind her. John laced his shoes, his thoughts silently calling out for his Dragon, so far unanswered.


	28. The Blind Maiden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone ^_^ long time no post, I know. Sorry about that, going back home for a bit seems to have taken the time away from me.  
> Next chapter will likely be having some Mycroft in it :D yayyy!

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Britain's Uneasy Ties With the East (A Political Game Of Give And Take):** _With Egypt's key participation, the Dragon war has seen a turn for the worse for the **Draski,**_ _an event that has made Britain's efforts far more effective in the battle between Dragon and Humans within the west and most of Africa. However the East is still plagued by warfare, due in part from the uneasy relationship that Western governments hold with the leaders of the Eastern hemisphere. Queen Rania, a central player in the negotiation of aid and relief from the **Draski** in return for goods and land has maintained a rather complicated relationship with the United kingdom, particularly due to the fact that she herself has made her opinions known to the people whom she negotiates with. Britain seeks a more stable relationship, a codependence of trade between Rania's sector and most of the UK, however Rania has made no attempt to create any permanent foundations. It is known that in her opinion the United Kingdom seeks to use Afghanistan, and many other parts of the East as militia hubs, their cover-story being to "prevent the  **Draski** from creating a strong enough cult with which they might "gain supporters". However, the Queen herself has issued a statement that she believes that no such sector exists officially within her country (See page 495 section A for more details). It is a tenuous relationship, built in necessity for the war. The fact of the matter is- there is no military base strong enough that Rania controls to keep the  **Draski** from taking over, and Britain requires access to trade ports while their units are posted within the Queen's land. Needless to say- neither side is completely altruistic in their intentions. _

 

 

“We want you to act as a bodyguard, as a gesture of good faith to this country’s royalty.” 

John’s eyebrows rose as Dodge informed him of his mission, her eyes serious and sharp in the glow of the lamplight. When she showed no signs of guile, he looked at Morstan, noticing the way she stood tall and important- as if she were on the trail of something vital to the success of the war.

 

“We’ve received word that queen Rania, our current ally in the East has reason to believe that she’s under threat. The _Draski_ have shown interest lately in her dealings with Britain. If the enemy were to take her hostage, it could cause untold damage with our relations here. She’s offered us vital information to protect her, as well as good and important medical supplies from her personal traders. It’s more than just a protection job, John. Your position could very well lean Rania further into our favour- which could mean more imports for our men.”

 

John licked his lips nervously, taking in the information and feeling in the pit of his stomach a surge of indecisiveness. The weight of responsibility was swiftly becoming a recognisable sensation, yet what was new was the feeling of torn alliances. Sherlock had made it clear, even nonverbally, that there was something wrong with the queen and her Dragon. If his companion were here, he’d already be spitting and fixed for a fight. Yet Sherlock wasn’t here, and he hadn’t come back since last night. The twisting feeling of jealousy, petty and primal coursed through John, and despite himself he felt his jaw tightening. He looked to Mary, and whatever she saw in his expression made a smile quirk on her lips in satisfaction. Her voice was firm. 

“Dodge, I’m assigning you as John’s backup. Prep him with the information he’ll need, keep him in contact.”

“Sherlock-” John began, getting ready to ask if his Dragon was going to be involved in the mission. Mary however cut him off smoothly, a small smile of reassurance on her face. 

“Will be fine. I’m assigning Murray to look after him during your absence. Don’t worry John, Cerioth will also be placed in the palace. You won’t be without protection.”

 

That wasn’t what John had been worried about, but he knew better than to argue. There was a glint in Mary’s eyes that was more than determination, hungry and strangely predatory. John was as much drawn to it as he was wary of it all of a sudden, and the uncomfortable shifting of butterflies in his stomach refused to settle even after Morstan had left and Dodge handed him a file.

“Your name for the mission is Hamish Wrentley, and to start with, you’re right-handed.”

 

****

Sherlock had spent the night hiding out on the compound, stewing over possibilities and waiting for the stars to recede into dawn so that he could wake John without bringing out a foul temper and more arguing. John’s angry face lingered in the Dragon’s mind, and it made him feel guiltier than it should have. He ignored the sentiment, instead focusing on the fact that John could very well be in danger, and unknowing of it. 

 

He went back towards the tent as dawn turned the sand from dark brown to caramel-gold, confident that a good night’s rest would make his friend more likely to listen to him. What Sherlock found however was an empty bed, and Bill Murray peering up at him blearily with a pre-caffeinated expression. 

 

“Dodge was just here.” He murmured “Said you’re with me today.” Sherlock frowned, expression thunderous even as Murray yawned and scrubbed at his face. The Dragon moved into the man’s personal breathing area, eyes slit-like as he stared the soldier down. The Dragon’s Magic sparked about him, a dangerous force of power that crackled and made Bill’s focus spring to attention. Warily, the soldier regarded Sherlock, voice unnaturally calm as he held his hands up- an obvious sign of submission. “Hey now, I knew you were going to be upset, but John’s in good hands. He’s with Dodge and she and Cerioth are his backup-”

 

Bill didn’t get much time to respond, Sherlock already turning away without so much as a by-your-leave. His intent was obvious, to chase after John or Morstan and demand to be involved, but as were most things in the army, Bill had to bring the weight of reality crashing back down around Sherlock’s ears. “You _can’t_ go after him. You’re helping with a mission yourself.” Sherlock halted, teeth gritting even as his own duties came to the forefront. In any other situation in which John would not be held responsible for his own actions, he would not have even bothered to deign Bill’s words with a reply. As it stood he turned towards the man’s green-eyed gaze, blue eyes narrowed. Murray quickly supplied him with information, sensing the Dragon’s impatience. 

“We’re scouting the villages today for faces. Known members of the resistance. We _need_ all the manpower we can get and in layman’s terms- that’s you and all the other Dragons on spare. Direct order from both Captain Benson and Wilkes, non-negotiable. M’sorry mate.”

 

Sherlock scowled, suppressing the panic he internally felt filling him from showing on his face. He didn’t want to leave John alone, not without knowing the mission and definitely not with Dodge as his only companion. The idea alone made him chafe, down to his very bones as a matter of fact, but Sherlock was also painfully aware of Sebastian’s threats from the night, whispering and making dread curl in his gut. Sherlock managed a tight nod, but he did not bother to hide his indignation. Bill watched it all with a kind of world-weary expression. He looked as if to heaven, sighing through his teeth and shaking his head once, a slow plea to an unknown universe. 

“God save me from the stubbornness of Dragons.” 

 

****

The journey to the palace was nearly a day long, and John itched under the new attire he wore- unused to being out of military fatigues for so long. Designed to look like nothing more than a servant, the soldier’s garbs were silken and light- designed for harsh summer conditions and robe-like. His upper half was partially covered by a silken sash-gaudy blue with white lacing of leaves and sprigs of ivy. It was the royal colours, and John thumbed the material absently, still hardly comprehending his new role and yet simultaneously embracing it. The strangest part for him was the absence of his Dragon, as well as the fact that Dodge sat across from him in similar attire. To see her dressed in such finery instead of practical boots and dusty military garb felt alien to John. He couldn’t seem to stop staring, and Cerioth didn’t really help as he stared right back at John for his mistress, unblinking and silent as stone. 

 

“The Queen will want an audience with us, before we begin our stay. We’re to be back at the base in half a month’s time, but she’ll have living quarters for each of us until then.” Dodge explained this with an easy kind of acceptance, even as John swallowed and he thought of Sherlock’s reaction to the news. The Dragon would not be taking it well he knew, and privately John made a mental note to thank Bill for his patience with his share of dessert rations for a while. It was the least the poor sod deserved, after dealing with Sherlock’s tetchiness. 

John’s Bond was itching. He resisted the urge to scratch and instead thanked his lucky stars that his robe had sleeves- even if they were as thin as gossamer and only just hid the ever-growing marks that made him a target of scrutiny in both the Human and Dragon world.

 

****

John had never seen a royal’s house before- not in person. Buckingham Palace was in a different District, and there were days his mum could barely scrape together enough earnings to buy jam for school lunches- let alone a train ticket. Somehow, the soldier knew that even if he had the British Royalty simply would not have been able to hold a candle to the sight before him. 

 

The courtyard alone was larger than the entirety of the military compound, and it was filled with a garden that as as manicured and lovely as the servants tending to it. Roses bloomed, watered carefully under the heat, and they basked in the sun in vivid shades of plum and fuchsia. They sat next to Marigolds, sun-yellow and cheerful, and trees that twisted and knotted in on themselves until they made elegant sculptures of animals and shapes that played tricks on John’s eyes. He tried not to gape- but it was difficult as he passed the centrepiece- a fountain that stood in glorious display. It trickled life-giving water into troughs that wove through the courtyard, topped with a white Dragon seemingly surrounded by flames. 

 

He, Dodge and Cerioth were met by a rather nervous looking young woman, smiling kindly from beneath a fringe of frizzy curls. She curtsied to them both before straightening, her garb identical to theirs as she introduced herself as Hajera. 

“The Queen told me to expect you, on her behalf I welcome you to the palace.” 

John resisted the urge to stare at Dodge, who took on a persona that was eons away from her normally gruff exterior. 

“The pleasure is ours. I’m Ersa and this is Hamish. We look forward to meeting her majesty and to be working with you.”

“I’m the head of the women’s quarters amongst the servants. Aamon, the head of the males’, unfortunately had pressing business to attend to.” Hajera looked to John, her dark eyes wide and earnest. “He asked me to apologise on his behalf, as well as to show you to your quarters, when the time came.” She laughed then, and it was a sound that was both embarrassed and stressed. “I’m afraid you’ve all come at a rather pressing time. You see, her majesty is currently in the middle of a rather strenuous bout of negotiation with neighbouring countries. We’ve all had to keep on our toes- she does not like to be kept waiting.”

 

John watched the nervous tick of the woman’s hands and felt a small pool of dread settle in the pit of his stomach. Dodge however maintained her practiced smile. Her voice was jovial as she replied, nodding for Hajera to lead the way. 

“Then we best not keep her waiting.”

As a group, they entered the main doors, John only pausing to marvel as the vast, golden door-knockers before being ushered inside, cut off from light itself as he stepped into the marble dimness of the main hall. 

 

****

The child Queen sat poised on a divan of soft pillows, varying shades of blue making stark contrast with the golden trim of the decor. She lay much like Sherlock would when in the midst of thinking, suspended in a loose, lazy way that made John instantly think of a cat surveying its property. Those sightless eyes did not track them, yet the coiled Dragon that lay in her lap lifted its head upon their entry, as if scenting the air. The silvery gleam of its scales shone in the light of the glittering oil lamps, dazzling the eye even as Dodge, Cerioth and John knelt before her a respectful distance away. 

 

There was a breath of peace as Hajera announced their names before kneeling herself, Queen Rania rising to her feet in one graceful motion to reveal a glittering dress of aquamarine and midnight blue. Her Dragon wound itself about her neck, seamless in its motions. When she spoke, it was with the calm quality of someone absolutely and completely secure in the knowledge of their own power and ability. Her English was nearly accentless, cultured with a British lilt that gave away the origins of her tutors. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you all. The House of the White Dragon welcomes you, Hamish, Ersa and Cerioth.” 

John started, wordlessly surprised that the young woman before him even considered the Dragon in her greetings. It was uncommon for anyone to regard slaves, let alone address them directly, and a part of him wondered if perhaps the close bond that Rania so obviously shared with her own Dragon influenced her. He chanced a darting look through his lashes, regarding the creature coiled about her neck quietly. 

 

 John had yet to see it in a Human disguise, and its piercing blue eyes seemed to stare directly through him, knowing far too much for a creature designed to merely aid the Queen in seeing. Its wings, delicate-looking like spider webs, stretched restlessly upon its back. In the dark halo of the Queen’s curls, they looked like sails. 

Hajera made her leave quietly, leaving John and Dodge alone with their employer, someone who for all her supposed physical disabilities felt dangerous in John’s mind, an unpredictable live wire. His instincts rarely proved him wrong, and yet Rania did not seem mad, rather the opposite as with the leave of her lady-in-waiting she sighed, relaxing minutely before indulging her guests. 

“Please, feel free to sit on any of the chairs or cushions you see before you. You all must be tired from the long journey.” 

She gestured to the many piles of cushions that surrounded her throne, taking her own seat gracefully as John, Dodge and Cerioth each made themselves comfortable. The pillows smelled of spices- jasmine and clove, and John resisted the urge to sneeze valiantly even as he cross his legs, facing the Queen cautiously. Rania herself say delicately, high-born through and through in her mannerisms, even in the way she offered each a cup of tea from a steaming porcelain teapot. It was a beautiful thing, painted with swirling designs of birds and flowers. The tea itself made John’s throat warm with comfort, and he tasted long-forgotten flavours of chai and oolong. 

 

“I do hope that Hajera’s nerves didn’t frighten you terribly. She can be _such_ an anxious thing when there’s politics going on- which is nearly all the time here, as of late. Ryuk here tells me that not a day goes by where the poor girl isn’t fluttering over some imaginary issue. ” Rania apologised in an easy kind of grace as she patted her Dragon’s head, sightless eyes crinkling with her smile as she took a sip of tea before continuing. The pleasant expression faded away with the weight of her news however, Ryuk shifting about her neck, bristling as if under threat.  “I do hope I am not inconveniencing either of you with my request, but I’m afraid after the events of a few nights ago, I fear for my own safety should I continue to live in the palace without protection.” 

 

“We’ve heard you have reason to believe that someone is trying to usurp your position on the throne.” Dodge murmured, setting her cup down smoothly. John still rankled at the soft tones of her voice- so unlike the woman he knew. Rania’s smile was without joy as she confirmed the soldier’s suspicions.

“More than believe. I _know_ it. Almost a week ago, Ryuk alerted me to an intruder in my chambers. A paid man, known already for petty crime. He had a knife, though my friend made short work of any limb that could possibly put it to use without much trouble.” 

 

She stroked the Dragon’s scales tenderly, a wordless thanks. John was not surprised when the Dragon lifted its head, speaking aloud. 

“My Lady has not slept well since. Hence your involvement. I saw you at the marketplace, and with my own gifts saw that you are an honest and brave Human.” The Dragon’s head turned towards John then, eyes glittering softly. John resisted the urge to straighten under that gaze, a slow flush crawling over his ears despite the fact that Rania’s head wasn’t even turned directly towards his presence. The Queen nodded in agreement with Ryuk, brows furrowed in determination.

“It’s for this reason that we requested you specifically, _Hamish._ ” It was clear then that Rania knew it was not John’s name, and the young man swallowed even as the girl grinned in Dodge’s direction. “We knew he could be trusted with this mission, and so few in court these days bear that badge any longer. Ryuk has a clairvoyant presence, but the deceit that goes on in my palace creates a nest of vipers, some deadly and others benign. Everyone has secrets, harmful or just necessary, and so I thought to bring in outside help.”

 

Dodge nodded, and she reached out rather boldly to brush the Queen’s hand, a gesture of goodwill that had the girl smiling tightly. 

“Fear not your majesty, I too can vouch for Hamish. He’s a good man.”

Ryuk’s growl sealed John’s fate, heavy with implication. It erased some of the glowing edges of the mood, and John’s hands curled in his lap in wordless expectation. 

“What’s more, your reports say he is good with a weapon. At this rate, that is truly all we needed to know.”

The Dragon said it with a note of finality, hanging in the air and left to be mused over tea and wordless pleasantries that no one truly heard nor cared for. 

 

****

The palace was a maze, filled with hundreds of halls that would be ridiculously easy to get lost in. As a result, Dodge left with Hanjera as a guide, John instructed to wait alone with the Queen for Aamon to be free of his duties so that he might escort him towards the men’s chambers. Without his superior the soldier found the Queen a different person, less prone to the polite sway of words that did not mean much. She was still entirely courtly, but there was a certain level of relaxation to her presence, a loosening of the metaphorical ruler that so straightened her spine with company. 

 

John also found quickly that the conversation lead to topics that he had trouble navigating safely. Attempting to find a line of speech they could both relate to, John shyly found himself glancing at the Queen’s scarred face- curious but unable to ask directly less it be seen as rude. After the fourth or fifth glance, Ryuk let out a soft rumble of amusement that sounded like marbles rolling on a wooden floor, and Rania poured more tea smoothly even as she told John

“It happened many years ago, I do not think on it much any longer, as it’s part of me.”

“How does… How do you manage to run a kingdom like this? Especially with… well being unable to…” John blurted the question out before he could think, promptly trailing off before flushing at his own forwardness. Dodge would have his head if she had known he was asking such things, but the Queen fascinated him on some level. There was an aura of Dragon-based Magic about her, a sort of haze that made the Thrall side of John quiver with energy. 

“I’ve adapted over time. It was not easy.” Rania admitted modestly. She sipped her cup in silence and seemed to reflect on her words before speaking, looking at John and seeming to peel back layers of skin, identity with the scrutiny in her unseeing eyes. “How does one do anything, when their family is murdered and you are left to pick up the pieces of a country that is falling apart?” She shrugged, slender shoulders shifting Ryuk with the motion. Her voice was quiet. “I supposed I cried a lot, the first few months. Cried and read everything I could get my hands on to do with politics. Sometimes I did both at the same time.” 

 

“It must have been hard.” John murmured despite himself, imagining it almost against his will. Rania looked young now- but she would have been even younger at the time of her parent’s deaths. A small child, locked in a library with ancient textbooks and men that were possibly even older advising her on the “right” thing to do. It seemed like an impossible burden to place on a child, and the soldier cleared his throat before admitting “I wouldn’t have been able to do it, that’s for sure.” Rania took the sympathy well, chin lifting in the tiniest admittance of pride. Her voice took on the barest hint of flint. 

“Yes, well. I was pretty desperate, back then. One becomes so when they realise that the only way they might survive is to be even more cruel than the cruelty that has been handed to them.”

 

Ryuk slithered down from her neck then, curling in her lap before peering up at John. The Queen’s hands stroked his flanks lightly, and her voice took on a mildly softer edge as she looked to the soldier before her, dressed as a servant. 

“But we see that you know this harsh truth of life, don’t you?” John swallowed, his cup set down at his crossed feet. Rania’s voice took on a musing note as she murmured, head tilted to the side in interest. “You lead a truly fascinating existence, and you do not even know why it is so. What must it even be like… I wonder?” 

“Can’t really see the future, can I? I’m just… me.” The soldier laughed somewhat nervously, reaching to scratch the back of his head. The heat in the Dragon’s gaze cooled, and likewise Rania’s expression melted from serious to playful. Her voice took on a warm edge that somehow set his stomach churning. 

“Of course not. No one truly can… Aamon will be here for you in a moment.”

 

Before John could ask how she knew, there was the quietest of knocks at the door. Conversation was momentarily forgotten as a man with a shaved head and a narrow faced entered, white robes not hiding the circles under his eyes and the jut of his bones. His voice was querulous and reed-thin. 

“Hamish Wrentley? If her majesty wishes it, I would show you to your room for the night.”


	29. Separated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fear not, I do indeed, live. ^.^  
> I've been bogged down with the unpleasant business of uni applications, but managed to find some time for a chapter :) It's an informational one too~~ gotta love those. 
> 
> The hint for the next chapter after this one is: Death. Make of it what you will ^.^ after this is when things begin to more or less fall apart for the boys for a bit...
> 
> As always many thanks to my lovely beta TPurr!

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Hekata Heratha (Royal Blood):** _Though the title today has much been forgotten, the royal family once brought peace and harmony amongst Dragon-kind, allowing the many species to coexist with one another (see page 44 part G for details). Much like how a Human_ **_Thrall_ ** _might join the mental network that Dragons are so well-known for, the_ **_Hekata Heratha’s_ ** _task would have been to serve as a medium for all of Dragon-kind, able to hear the thoughts of many Dragons at once and then proceed with the best possible decision given their people’s feelings on the subject. The Royal family, born into the Northern Dragon’s tribe had reigned peacefully for nearly a thousand years. It is here that I admit, that I was once one of them._

_The passages to come will detail the death of my family, and the loss of the one person that meant the world to me. By the time someone finds this book, I fear that I too, will be gone._

 

 

Sherlock _hated_ being on “Spare”. 

Simply put, it meant that he was on call for anyone and everyone while John was absent, and though he’d never admit it, he had gotten foolishly used to being treated as kindly as he was. His knees were no longer toughened from kneeling, his hands battle-hardened but unused to being rapped as punishment. The first time he had been slow on the unpacking of supplies, the chef had shocked him with the collar hard enough that he had seen stars explode behind his eyelids. 

 

One week had already passed, and he found himself almost desperate for kindness. He hated himself for it, because not only did it make him foolishly cling to kind people like Murray or Stamford, but it made him itch to sink his teeth into something when he was saddled with Sebastian Wilkes. 

 

The sergeant never reported the incident that had happened, instead deciding that he could better dish out punishment by volunteering to have Sherlock on duty with him at every available opportunity. The Dragon would often find himself ordered to do demeaning and difficult work, scrubbing down portable lavatories, carrying bags of flour or sugar to the mess hall, or just being Sebastian’s living punching bag. The man was verbally abusive as well, and seemed to delight in mocking Sherlock every chance he could get. 

 

Worse, he seemed to realise that physical punishments as a whole didn’t break the Dragon, Sherlock instead having a weakness that was far, far easier to exploit.

“Lick my boots or Watson will be detailed to the front car for all foreseeable missions. I don’t think he’d make good bomb and bullet-bait, do you?”

“Don’t growl or I’ll have Watson put on lav duties for three months.”

“Watson’s weak, but you’d do just about anything for him, wouldn’t you? God, and I thought Dragons couldn’t _feel._ Freak.”

 

It went on and on, and every time Sherlock felt the tolerance he had begun to build for humans, fed by John’s kindness and hope, wither and die. 

 

****

John’s stay at Rania’s palace was, in many ways, about as far from military life as one could get. The first night found him in a room that was both spacious and heavily decorated, silken curtains parting to allow moonlight to shine upon a plush four-poster bed. The thread-count of the sheets alone lead John to have the deepest sleep he had ever experienced, and when he woke it was to the pink light of sunrise staining the mosaic floor. 

 

The people themselves were equally extravagant in appearance, and the soldier felt as though he were an ugly duckling amongst swans, especially as he accompanied his new charge throughout the day. Queen Rania and her Dragon regularly looked as though they were ethereal beings from another planet, and though the Queen frequently made sure to include John in conversation, he had to admit it was all a bit awkward. 

 

He _missed_ Sherlock, and it was a private thought that kept him awake at night. John wasn’t sure if he could explain the odd twisting in his chest that came with thought of the Dragon, wondered to himself if Sherlock was doing okay with his absence. He had left while they were not on the best of terms, and the idea that the Dragon might have thought his departure to be a pleasure made him feel rather sick. Worse was the idea that Sherlock was missing him just as much. 

 

During the day, John’s thoughts were filled with the rumours that circled throughout the palace, as complicated as if it were a living, breathing ecosystem all on its own. John learned over the span of three days that the man who had lead him to his rooms the first night was named Imer before he was Aamad, and that he was apparently once a slave that Rania had bought and then later freed. He had chosen to stay in her service, as he couldn’t even read, and so looking for a job had proven too difficult for him. He also learned that Rania herself was either planning to get married to a distant lord from Nairobi, or perhaps she was planning on just killing him in a political squabble. It was all a bit up in the air, truthfully. Rumours could be like that. 

No one could say for sure who it was exactly who desired to take the Queen’s life, or who they would hire next to attempt to take her life, but whispers circulated that whoever it was, they had powerful connections indeed. 

There were whispers of a possible sniper offering their services for hire, deep undercover on the British side. John thought that the man had to be nuts if he existed. He couldn’t imagine hiding anything from the thousands of eyes back at the compound. 

 

He also swiftly learned that he may have found someone else who might actually share his own private opinions of the strenuous relationship between Dragons and Humans. It was in the quiet of Queen Rania’s study that he was invited to sit for tea after the first two weeks, and he found himself rather getting used to the woman’s presence, somehow at ease with her quiet persona. He was gazing into the warm reflection of a teacup, knowing already that the Queen by nature would not speak until she was completely certain that she had all of her thoughts organised. When she did speak, John could feel the weight of Ryuk’s gaze pinned on him like twin jewels.

 

“We saw your Dragon, Hamish. The first time we glimpsed you.”

John, used to the code name by now, looked carefully at the Queen, feeling his head tilt in curiosity as to where the conversation was going to head. “You have a strong link, stronger than Ryuk or I have seen in a very long time.”

John licked his lips, wondering for a moment if he was being interrogated. Yet there was a kind of expectancy in the Dragon’s intelligent eyes, and a kindness in hers. 

“Pardon the forwardness, your majesty, but I would say that you and your Dragon have a rather “strong link” as well.”

 

Rania allowed a small smile, nodding her head in slow agreement. 

“Many Humans don’t understand what it’s like, the intense bonding that can form, when a Dragon and a Human look past their own differences.”

 

It was the first time John had heard someone say something so similar to his own beliefs out loud, and he looked at Rania in poorly-concealed surprise. Frankly, though Ryuk was seen as a companion and in many ways an almost-equal to the Queen, most of Rania’s slaves were of Dragon descent, and she had shown no political sways that John knew of that could be labelled as “radical liberalism”. On the surface at least, she did not seem like the type to be advocating freedom and rights for Dragons, not when the majority of the grunt work occurring in her palace was made possible by slave labour. 

 

Perhaps catching something in his expression, Ryuk spoke to John. His voice whispered across the thought link of the soldier’s **_Thrall_** abilities, rumbling like a purr. 

_My Queen knows that sometimes, in order to create the waves of change, one must be subtle about the strings they pull._

“What Ryuk is saying, is that we have an… informant, of sorts,” Rania cut in smoothly, setting her cup down to fold her hands in her lap delicately. Her sightless eyes seemed to stare at something in the distance as she spoke, and John unconsciously found himself leaning forward. “There are those of us… people whose sympathies lie with a path of peace. For _both_ Dragons and Humans, Ryuk and I believe that harmony can be found.”

 

John sucked in a slow breath, blinking to absorb the information. Harmony, _peace…_ it seemed like an abstract concept to him, having grown up in a world that from his birth had been entrenched in battle and blood. What would it be like, to wake on an Earth that _wasn’t_ fighting some great enemy? Was something like that even _possible?_

“It sounds like a dream,” he muttered, and the Queen hummed and cupped her tea once more, taking a long sip before replying.

“With the right leverage, anything dreamed can become reality.”

“How?”

“The Dragons…” Rania murmured softly, “are biologically speaking, a hive species. They are linked to each other telepathically, and before Humans interfered with their natural way of life, they relied on a special bloodline within their species to link all of them together, to communicate amongst themselves. The bloodline ensured they stayed in harmony with the rest of the world, and amongst themselves. With the bloodline intact, they would have been both a peaceful race, and invincible.”

“What happened to them?” John asked, feeling the cold sweep in his stomach that came only from preparing for bad news. Rania’s lips twisted, and something dark and bitter burned in her expression.

“The same thing that happened to my own family. Someone decided peace was an inconvenience. The Human government decided that the Dragon’s treasures should belong to the government, and the Dragons objected. Strongly. it was only a matter of time before the attacks began.”

 

She petted the Dragon about her neck then, stroking the crown of his head in comfort. John watched as the Dragon’s eyes closed momentarily, opening only a moment later to peer at him. The soldier felt a tightness in his throat, and it made him have to swallow against the bile that burned in his chest. 

“What happened?”

“An assassination. The bloodline occurs only in Northern Dragons, and back then, the Dragons lived tribally. They killed the King and the Queen, and their two heirs. At least, that is the official records.”

“Official records?” 

_“Hamish,”_ the Queen smiled, “surely you must know by now that not everything is as it seems.”

****

“Christ, Sebastian’s a special brand of cock, isn’t he?” 

Sherlock growled a wordless noise of complaint, wincing as he braced his hands against the upper frame of his cot. The sting of rubbing alcohol made his back burn, and he worked to bite off the yelp that wanted to break from his lips. Bill pressed the cotton swabs as gently as he could to the gashes along his back, but still the Dragon’s wings quivered in agony, and he grit his teeth until they creaked to keep back the roar that wanted to erupt from his throat. 

 

Bill hissed in sympathy as he hovered behind the Dragon, ghosting over the nasty marks with his green eyes scrunched in sympathy. Sherlock’s wings were black and sickly green with his pain, and a coating of sweat lined his shoulders and spine with the effort it took to remain in place. Each time that Murray pressed the disinfectant to his skin, Sherlock had to physically resist the urge to snap. Only John had ever touched him like this. Only _John_ ever _should_ have. 

_John wasn’t here, he was off on some secret mission._

 

The negative cloud of thoughts that resonated in the Dragon’s mind didn’t much help his mood. Neither did Bill’s questions.

“John’s gonna be fit to be tied over this, he dotes on you terribly. You should report that bastard Sebastian, to be honest.”

“Report to _whom? Morstan?_ ” Sherlock snarled, surprised by the spitting fury in his words. “It’s not like they can do much more than give him a _warning._ I’m a red-card, he’ll claim it was all in _self-defence._ ” 

 

Silence echoed in the wake of his statement, and Sherlock hung his head with the knowledge of his own position, the inevitability of his loss should he try to fight Sebastian. No matter what he would do, either he or John would suffer, and there was no way to stop it. The Dragon wanted nothing more than to punch a hole through Sebastian’s skull, and instead all he could do was wince as Bill began laying gauze down over his back. 

 

Wearily, he sat perched on the edge of his cot when Murray was finished, tired eyes looking up at the lieutenant before flicking away. Bill’s expression was curious, a kind of blank slate that showed that the man was thinking a great deal many things, none of which he was inclined to bring to the surface. 

Sherlock was just about ready to decide to curl himself into a sulking ball when a movement caught his eye. The hand at Bill’s right side had clenched, and as the Dragon looked up, he saw that the man’s shoulders had straightened as if coming to some final decision. 

 

“Sherlock,” he murmured lowly, his green eyes like muted lamplight in the evening. The Dragon looked at him, and in Murray’s posture he read suddenly secrets, a man that he wasn’t sure he could read. Whatever Bill had been planning to say however, would never come to pass. 

In that moment, the shrill wail of an alarm sounded, and the harsh bark of soldiers being called to defence caused Bill to hiss in frustration, expression abruptly closing off to his usual, friendly persona. 

 

_“Dammit._ Not now! _”_ He spun to his cot, rifling through his supplies to shuck on his uniform as quickly as possible. Sherlock rose as well, the immediate danger stoppering any questions he might pose. He didn’t get very far, the burning along his spine causing him to let out a muted yelp of agony. 

“Don’t _move_ idiot!” Bill was there then, helping him to sit back down with careful arms on his shoulders. Sherlock growled, the sound more animal than man as he panted through the washing tide of red that seemed to swim over his vision. 

“Secrets,” the Dragon mumbled, looking into the man’s dark green eyes. He fought a wave of nausea, swallowing thickly. Sherlock was unsure if he conveyed his meaning, but in either event it seemed that Bill understood. The lieutenant’s mouth firmed, and his voice when he spoke was swift and clipped. 

“Listen to me. You’re to go to that rebel Dragon’s shed, you’re to guard him. Do _not_ go back to the compound, stay there and _wait._ ” Bill’s voice dropped to a whisper, and it was filled with something that promised dread. “This is above both of our heads now. There’s no stopping it.” 

 

He gave Sherlock no time for questions or arguments then, hauling the Dragon carefully to his feet. Sherlock whined at the pain, dizzy from it, but Murray was brutally efficient and unmerciful, shoving him into his military fatigues with practiced ease. The Dragon swam in and out of focus as he was dressed, and his vision kept alarmingly fading to grey. Images of John, of snow and burning heat crawled along his skin like a sickening ocean. He was only brought back fully as Bill shook him, his strong hands gripping Sherlock’s shoulders with bruising force, his voice cracking like a whip over the Dragon’s head. 

_“Focus._ I need you to focus, Sherlock! I know it’s hard but _please._ This is important: You wait at the shed, you don’t come back to the compound. You _stay there,_ with Xavi. Wait until I find you.” 

 

Bill’s lips twitched, and with a final shake of Sherlock’s shoulders turned to push the Dragon towards the flap of the tent. 

Despite the Dragon’s disorientation, it was instinct to comply when Bill shoved him towards the dusted edge of the compound borders, snarling orders.

_“Run.”_

 

****

A Dragon when running at full tilt could easily outpace a bear, and given the fact that Sherlock knew the compound with his eyes closed, he found himself halfway to Xavi’s shelter before he even registered his own pain. 

The first shrieking whistle of fire sounded in his ears then, and he ducked instinctively into the dirt, making his form as small as possible. A second after, the place where he had once been running was singed with Dragon’s fire. 

Sherlock shifted into his full form then, and though he was too injured to fly, the **_Draski_** seemed reluctant to fight a Dragon injured just enough to be able to taste bloodlust on his tongue. 

 

The attack was different from the others, Sherlock could already see. This was no raid, this was an all out _strike._ The Dragons he passed on his mad run to the outside of the compound were taking nothing, and killing every member of British military they could get their hands on. A part of Sherlock wanted to stop, to look back. He didn’t. Instead he focused on the burning in his lungs, the pounding of his own heart, and above all focused on the fact that if he didn’t survive, he would fail John. 

Another attack, this one from a Chinese Dragon. Boiling water nearly clipped Sherlock’s wings, and he lashed out without thinking. The resulting crunch of bone and flesh was barely registered in his mind. 

 

He kept running, right until his wings spread, and he hopped the steel fence and barbed wire, landing in the desert dust on the other side with an all-resounding _thud._

Fully Dragon and more than a bit tired of jostling his injuries, Sherlock grumbled in protest.

He was going to get answers from Bill, provided the man even made it out of battle alive.

 

****

Xavi and Molly had become fast friends in the time that she had been charged to care for him and his egg, both of them bonding over a kinship that could only be born from years of hardship confessed. 

Molly was normally wary of strangers, prone to fear and nervous of speaking. Yet there was a gentility about Xavi that one couldn’t help but notice immediately, shown in the way he smiled at her upon her first arrival, wrapped about his egg contentedly. 

 

It was clear he would be a wonderful mother, when the time came. He doted upon his egg like it was his prized-possession, was dedicated to its care completely. Molly saw this and felt a tug in her chest that could be nothing but longing, and perhaps sensing her grief, the other Dragon did not take long to let her take part in the care of his most precious treasure. 

Molly had once thought that the ability to love, to nurture a child had been permanently stolen from her, but she had never accounted for the possibility that she might give her affections to another’s egg. She found she didn’t mind it, rather… 

She wanted nothing more than to watch the small life inside the egg’s coloured shell grow, and hatch, and breathe life into her world. 

 

In return for her care, Xavi also told her stories of his home, back in India. He wove fantastic stories, and he’d weave trinkets she’d find for him in her hair and his own even while murmuring of aquamarine pools, bustling cities, and a family that was not of blood. In return, she had told him of Mike Stamford, and his kindness.

 

Molly had been so afraid that night after Sherlock had saved her that she had come afterwards to Xavi’s shed and listened to his stories, crying against his lap as he stroked his hands through her hair. 

They had been together when the raid alarm had gone off. 

 

The shrieking system had sounded in the evening, as the sun set a bloody ring against the desert sand and the night threatened to bring its blessed cool. Molly and Xavi had both taken to eating late in the evenings together, after the Mess Hall had closed. Bowls of rice and canned meat were forgotten in the wail of the alarm, and Xavi’s dark eyes had grown wide with dread as he’d curled about his egg, his jade-green tail lashing with terror. 

 

_What is that sound? What is happening?_

His distressed thoughts sounded through Molly’s own thundering heartbeat, and she crouched protectively in front of him, between the entrance to the shed and her charge. She had been instructed to protect Xavi and the egg with her life, and even if she hadn’t she would have done so. She shifted without thought, a Dragon of reddish-pink hue that could barely be contained in the shed’s four walls. Her thoughts reached out, comforting her friend.

_It will be alright. Fear not, this is only a raid by the Draski. The others will be sent to deal with them, we are out of the line of fire, too far from the compound._

 

Xavi wasn’t sure if he was comforted by the words, but he knew when it was best for him to keep silent. His lips tightened together, white with stress, and he buried his cheek against the shell of his egg, crooning to it protectively. He would fight, to protect it. Die. He would fight to protect Molly, his _friend._

Still he trembled in fear as the sound of fire-fights began, and the distant shriek of life being lost howled through the air. 

 

The sounds carried into the evening, and if anything, only grew worse. The two crouched in the shed, neither of them daring to so much as breathe too loudly, should their hideaway somehow be spotted. Molly nervously fingered her collar when she wasn’t in Dragon form, and lashed her tail when she was. Her thoughts were with Mike, with what she would have to do should they be spotted. 

As the sun sunk fully below the horizon, blue night and grey shadows began to bleed through. With them, black smoke from the compound. It rose in the sky with inky intent. 

 

It was nearly a half hour, before either of them heard much of anything coming their way. It was some distance to the shed from the compound, and anyone headed towards them would have had to have gone by foot, or risk being seen in the air. 

 

As a result, both Molly and Xavi tensed when they heard distinct, heavy footfalls, the sound Dragon-like in nature, too forceful to be anything Human. Molly shifted into her full form, a rumbling growl of warning already working in her throat. Xavi watched as the barrel of his friends stomach began to glow with heat, Molly working herself up to spit a ball of fire at whoever their visitor may be. He shifted as well, a slender Chinese Dragon, his own water reserves beginning to heat as he snarled threateningly. 

The two of them heard the footsteps pause, obviously acknowledging their warning. 

 

What neither of them expected was the thunderous, familiar voice that greeted them.

**_Molly, Xavi. It’s me._ **

 

Sherlock. 


	30. Traitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An actual timely update? it's a small miracle. ^.^''
> 
> Things are beginning to reach the climactic part of this section of my story. We are coming to a close on John's war years. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Hint for next chapter: Heatstroke
> 
> As always, many thanks to my lovely beta; TPurr :)

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**The Holmes Bloodline (The Royal Family):** _The last generation of the royal family were happy to bear two heirs to their title, brothers that would be the prized jewel of the Northern Dragon tribe. I grew up high in the mountains, and can remember even now a kingdom that seemed to glow from the jagged caves, my people thriving and safe from danger in such high altitudes and severe weather. The assassination attempt happened when I was the equivalent of a young man, my brother the equivalent of a ten year old Human child. Within a fortnight, a siege unlike any other occurred upon the mountain, and my people were taken captive, the first made slaves. It was a bloodbath, and I lost so much that night that even now I am reluctant to recall. Amongst the casualties were my brother and my mate, just found and then lost._ _I find myself the last of the Holmeses, and I am alone. Not a day goes by where I do not ache for my kingdom, my people, my family. This is why I find myself writing this memoir. I wish to preserve what was lost, in case it has been irreparably damaged. I wish for someone, anyone be they Dragon or man, to pick up this book, and know: Caring is not an advantage, and no one knows this better than someone who has lost everything that they hold precious to them._

 

 

With night came an eerie silence, the moon shining upon the desert like a pale face witnessing the stillness below. For it _was_ still, unnaturally so, and the three Dragons in the shed shifted in varying states of worry as to what that silence meant. 

No one dared to leave the safety of their hideaway, lest rebels be about. 

 

Sherlock and Molly took turns keeping a guard, and Xavi curled about his egg, wide dark eyes growing steadily more frightened as the night stretched inexorably on. It was nearly three hours before anyone dared to speak, and it was Molly who cleared her throat querulously, looking at the bandages that bound Sherlock’s back and chest. He had shifted into his Human form, and the gauze had split in places or soaked through, rust-coloured and ugly. 

“We should call someone, get help-”

“If we do that, we give away our position.” The Northern Dragon replied easily, pale blue eyes keeping a narrow watch out the window. His tone was a low rumble, as he glanced towards Molly, lips tightening with distaste for the situation. “We don’t know who came out on top during the fighting, and if the **_Draski_** find us, we’re captives.” 

Xavi let out a quiet whimper, pressing his forehead against the crest of his egg. His tail trembled in fear, and no one dared to say anything more on the matter, lest it be too painful a topic. 

 

They watched as the sand turned white-blue with the night, and a spattering of stars began to peek through the purpling sky. After a while, Molly went to the small pump that stood in the corner of the shed, and filled her canteen as quietly as was possible. She shared it with the other two Dragons, and when Sherlock finished drinking Xavi tentatively offered to redress his wounds. After the barest hesitation, the Dragon nodded. 

There were some supplies in the shed, and as Xavi wound strips of gauze around Sherlock’s shoulders and back, the Dragon did a quick mental calculation. Provided all of them were willing to sacrifice, they could survive off of the cans of food for about a week before they’d be forced to leave the shed. If the camp was abandoned, they could scavenge. If it wasn’t, then Sherlock for once in his life prayed that the British Army was still in charge of its chain-linked fences. 

Either way, Xavi couldn’t travel far with his egg. He’d be unable to come along should Sherlock decide to hunt after John. Which meant Molly would likely stay behind.

 

He would have to set up a kit for himself then, once he was sufficiently healed. Sherlock would go rogue if it meant finding John Watson, the idea truthfully didn’t frighten him as much as he supposed it should. 

When it came down to it, a part of Sherlock wondered if no matter what he did, he would wind up on the run. 

 

****

Midnight came before movement was heard outside, and immediately all three Dragons were awake and on edge. Sherlock had laid out wards to let them know of trespassers, and now his skin glowed frost-blue in delicate swirls before fading back into his pale skin. The Dragon carefully shifted into his other form, a growl of low warning bubbling in his throat. Molly and Xavi both joined in after a moment’s hesitation, something wild in the Chinese Dragon’s eyes as he clutched his egg to him, Molly just as determined. 

They’d each take out at least three people before they were taken down, by Sherlock’s estimates. Xavi, possibly four. 

 

It was a sick relief when they didn’t have to, Bill’s familiar presence washing over Sherlock’s thoughts like a wave.

_It’s okay, it’s me! Come on out, Sherlock. It’s safe now. Bring the egg._

 

The Dragon’s shoulders slumped, and he quickly relayed his message to the others. All three of them immediately felt a calming with the lieutenant’s words, and Xavi even managed a weak smile. Sherlock, shifting back into Human form, helped the Chinese Dragon carry his egg outside, opening the door to the shed to greet Bill, Molly in tow behind.

 

It was a cold shock though, when strange hands suddenly grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders, shoving and pinning him down into the sand with iron force. He let loose a snarl of surprise, dread curling in his stomach as he heard Xavi’s enraged and terrified shrieks, Molly’s screaming echoing in his ears. 

Sherlock tasted sand in his mouth, and he spat through gritted teeth even as wildly he looked up, sweat-soaked curls making it hard to see the shadowed outlines in the sand. What he saw didn’t make sense, and his brain heaved with the disconcerting reality before him. 

 

Bill and Rin stood side by side, but they were no longer dressed in British fatigues. Instead, they wore black uniforms, bullet-proof vests with a familiar insignia crested upon their shoulder: The **_Draski_** banner. Rin’s eyes glittered in the dark, and she stood before a bound figure that was slumped at her feet. It took Sherlock a second to recognise the soldier, beaten bloody and breathing shallowly through a broken nose. Sebastian Wilkes’ face peered up at him after a slow second, the man’s mouth gagged with a filthy shred of cloth. Beside him, similarly bound was Lieutenant Dodge. Her voice was muffled, making sharp sounds of protest that were swiftly rejected with a sharp, brutal kick to the kidneys. Sherlock watched as she grunted, falling to the ground in pain.

 

Bill’s face was partially covered by a black and red bandana, but he let it slip down his face as he spoke, his green eyes glowing in the dark. In the moonlight, his smile was bleached bone.

“Sorry for the rough handling, but I expected there to be only _two_ of you. Needed to be sure that this all goes according to plan.”

Sherlock growled, a wordless sound of confusion and outrage. The whip-marks on his back stung like fire, one of the soldiers he couldn’t see wrenching his arms back in such a way that he couldn’t even shift, he was in so much pain. The agony was like a hot spike lodged in his throat. 

Through the haze, Bill continued talking, obviously addressing all of them with calm intent.

“I wouldn’t bother trying to transform, all of you are collared and I’m not above using the clicker if it means getting results. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you fight.”

 

Sherlock could see the remote in Bill’s hands, his words carrying no small idle threat. He could feel the moment when Molly and Xavi both stilled, trying in vain to control their breathing, fear instinctually built into both of them. Even he could taste it, lingering on the back of his tongue. Slowly he let himself go limp, feeling a curl of hatred for himself as he did it. 

He did not expect the feminine, familiar chuckle that sounded by his ear. 

“That’s a good boy, now. We’re not the bad-guys, Sherlock. Truly.” Brigadier Morstan, humming to herself as she pressed the cold, metallic muzzle of a revolver to his cheek, spoke over his head to Bill. “You’re sure that he is the one? If we bring the wrong Dragon, our benefactors won’t hesitate to mete out consequences.”

 

Bill nodded a sharp acknowledgement, glancing at Sherlock once before flitting away. His voice was carefully neutral.

“Watson has a book, I don’t know how he found it, or who gave to him, but it’s informational. Intimately so. John hasn’t made it to the chapter yet, but there’s no denying it- he’s a _Holmes._ No one else could fit a description so well.”

 

The name was unfamiliar, and yet it struck something in Sherlock’s chest, an arrow. He shuddered, the sudden taste of snow and falling on his tongue. Flickers of a grey mountain flashed before his eyes, quicker than blinking. Sherlock only came back to himself as he was being tugged up to his feet, the gun levelled at his temple, trapped in Morstan’s iron grip and Bill’s threat of the collar. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Molly and Xavi were not being treated in the same manner. Still kneeling on the ground, they were frighteningly being held in the same executioner-like pose that Wilkes and Dodge were. Sherlock’s brain raced, because he had sudden insight of what was to happen if he did not act, and act _now._

 

The deductions came, lightning-fast and desperate. He flung them out, his breath smoke in the cold desert air. He spat them at Bill like poisoned arrows, shifting in Mary’s hold.

“You’re the mole. The informant, you and Mary. Both of you. You’re working for the **_Draski,_** and planned the raids from the start.”

Bill tilted his head in admittance to the accusation, a small smile on his face. 

“John’s right, that little trick of yours is right brilliant, you know.” 

“I have more.” Sherlock responded, his eyes flicking over Bill with critical analysis. He had to buy time, _narrow it down._ He needed to gather as much information as possible, find the weak-point in the plot. What he saw made his eyes narrow, a possible angle forming. “You raided the compound for supplies, got the rumours started. Made John look like the mole to hide yourself. Your original mission was to merely inflict damage, but when you saw me and John, you realised I was sought after. The question is- why are you with the **_Draski._** ”

 

Bill’s expression did something complicated then, a sort of twisting sneer. Sherlock was suddenly aware of how closely he and Rin were standing, almost entwined against one another. Murray’s voice was deadly soft as he replied, something cold and flat with hatred rising to the surface of his presence. 

“Tell me Sherlock, what do you think the chances are of an interspecies Bond between a Dragon and Human being successful?” 

 

Instead of waiting for a reply, Bill merely unclasped the cuff of his sleeve, shrugging the fabric upwards. All three Dragons sucked in a breath, finding before them a tattoo that trailed from the man’s wrist to the edge of his shoulder, disappearing towards his collarbone. A complete Bond, total and whole. It was a beautiful, unearthly thing, what appeared to be live flames dancing along Bill’s lower arm, bicep and shoulder. Twisted with the flames were red flowers, seeming to be alight and just about to burn away. 

It glowed, and with it so did one of Bill’s eyes, the same gold that reflected in Rin’s. Magic, powerful and heavy pushed on all of their minds. 

 

Bill spoke, and it was a cross between a Dragon’s rumble and a man’s hum.

“Rin and I Bonded, and I knew from the start that if people found out we’d constantly be threatened, hunted. I took matters into my own hands, made deals. Within the first month after that night, we began going to night raids.”

“You turned on your own kind then, because you loved her.” Sherlock rumbled. He was surprised by the fury that marred Bill’s face. The man laughed, and it was a callous sound. 

“How _couldn’t_ I? I watched scumbags like _Sebastian Wilkes_ torture my Mate when I wasn’t around to protect her, kill hatchlings without thought. I watched them torture _you_ and _John_ just because you dared to question the order of things. Tell me, Sherlock: Dragons are stronger, longer-lived, _and_ Magical. Who should _really_ rule this world?”

He kicked Sebastian then, booted foot striking hard against the man’s side. Wilkes made a strangled sound, cowering into the sand. As if only encouraged by the action, Bill did it again. 

The sight made something in Sherlock twist, despite the dim thrum of reluctant satisfaction that seemed to burn where he had been whipped. 

“You’re Human.” Sherlock hissed, and Bill flinched as though he had been struck. A wordless snarl of anger left his lips, more animal than man. Sherlock nearly missed the gun the man slipped out of his holster, but he didn’t miss its aim. Sebastian Wilkes’ terrified eyes looked up at Sherlock’s, meeting his own for an instant. 

The next second, a shot rang through the air, echoing through the desert. Molly shrieked, and Xavi whimpered. 

Sebastian fell to the ground, his own blood making a dark halo about his head in the sand. His eyes, fast becoming lifeless stared at Sherlock, his face a rictus of terror. 

 

Bill stood panting in rage, his eyes an unnatural, blazing gold. Beside him, Rin rumbled her approval, eyes slits in the moonlight. 

Murray’s voice was heavy with finality.

“I’m not Human. Not anymore.”

 

He jerked the gun, still smoking in his hands. Bill’s eyes were wild and bright as he addressed Morstan. 

“The others have seen too much, they’ll bring our names and faces to the authorities if they get the chance.” 

 

Sherlock felt an immediate stab of panic in his chest, and he was lunging forward without thinking, words bursting from his lips.

“No! No, leave them alone!” 

Molly was screaming, and Sherlock couldn’t twist to see. Still he could guess, because Xavi was making a hoarse crying noise, the sound of a Mother being forcibly torn from their egg. 

Sherlock, feeling sweat trickle down the back of his neck, shouted, desperate to appeal to the man he had once known, underneath this golden-eyed stranger.

_“Please,_ Bill. They’re harmless; no one will acknowledge their words even if they _do_ speak.”

“They’ll tell.” Murray replied calmly, already reloading his gun. His voice was scarily detached.“It’s not their fault; they’ve been indoctrinated since birth. They think it’s the _right_ thing.” He spat the last words, lifting the gun towards Dodge’s temple. The lieutenant groaned, a wordless sound of distress. 

Sherlock snarled, and without thinking he began to shift, consequences be damned. His thoughts roared, suddenly shoved towards Murray, and though he had never done it before, the power of his thoughts must have been felt, because the man stumbled back as if pressed by a physical wave. 

**_YOU HURT NO ONE ELSE OR I SWEAR TO YOU, I’LL FIGHT YOU EVERY CHANCE I GET. THERE WILL BE NO HESITATION TO RIP YOUR THROAT OUT IF I GET THE CHANCE. IF YOU KILL THEM THEN YOU ARE NO BETTER THAN WILKES’ KIND._ **

 

Bill’s upper lip curled in contempt, as he clutched at his head, but his weapon lowered despite himself. Some of the manic light in his eyes faded, and he seemed to consider Sherlock’s words for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite help it. 

There was a tense silence as the man debated, and Sherlock held his breath, listening to Xavi’s sobbing breaths and realising that if anyone died tonight, if anyone was _hurt,_ a part of him would never forgive Bill Murray. 

 

He could have crumpled with relief, when the lieutenant finally clicked the safety on his gun. 

“Grab him; we’ll get him to walk on a lead. We have no need for the others.” Those gold eyes flicked to Sherlock then, and the Dragon knew that Bill’s words rang heavy with truth. “If you don’t fight, we’ll give them a chance. Tie the Chinese and the English Dragon up, throw them and the Human scum into the shed. It’s filled with supplies; we’ll need them for the journey ahead.” 

Mary rumbled an assent, and even without looking at her, Sherlock’s eyes closed in defeat. Dragon, she was a Dragon, and he hadn’t even _noticed. Stupid._ “The desert can have them.” Murray finished, holstering his weapon. 

 

Mary, already shoving Sherlock forward, had a smile in her voice.

“As you wish.” Her breath was a ghost against the shell of Sherlock’s ear, her promise sending a shiver of dread down the Dragon’s spine. “Don’t you worry, dear. I think you’ll rather like who’s in charge. I just know he’s been _dying_ to get to know you.”

 

****

Mike Stamford, at a glance, was perhaps not much of a soldier. 

He had always been a rather soft child, sensitive and prone to be chubby. Clumsy. Complete with being bespectacled from a young age, he had never been the first pick on the sports team or the first choice for a date. 

 

Yet there was one thing that Mike was good at, and that was blending into the background when the need arose. The one time his bland appearance came in handy was when it came to disguise. John had used to joke that he could walk into a room, and pick out any information he needed just by listening in. 

Mike never thought he would have to blend in with bodies, and yet he found himself trying not to retch as he dipped his hands into old blood from a body before him, covering his clothing and face as best as he could, until the fabric was soaked through.

Dragons had a strong sense of smell, and the only way he could hope to hide, was if he smelled dead. 

 

He had no idea why the attack had happened, or even who was behind it, but the young soldier was determined to get to his Dragon, to make sure she was alright and to be able to radio for help when he could. If that meant doing something so appalling, well, he could always throw up later. Still his hands shook as the blood dripped cold into his eyes, his contacts long-gone and his glasses likely cracked and broken by now into a million pieces. 

The job was done, and he listened to the dying screams of the last dregs of soldiers, the men and women he had known, eaten dinner with and conversed with. Mike closed his eyes and hoped that he would make it to the evening alive. He lay on his stomach, pressed up against the body he’d found, decapitated, slashed like a broken doll and left upon the compound ground to bleed.

He knew somehow, he was going to forever have nightmares about this night. 

 

****

Those who were not killed were captured, and Cerioth found himself amongst the group rounded up to the centre of the compound, Dragons and a spare few Humans. They were all a ragged bunch, standing wearily before a Dragon that landed, large and snake-like upon the sand. It took the Chinese Dragon a moment to recognise her, and when he did he felt a tendril of dread lick along his stomach. 

Irene, looking beautiful and put together as she usually did, smiled. It was a grin that was all teeth, menacing and calculating.

 

She looked at the lineup of people as if they were promising new property, and she held in her hands with frightening ease a remote for their collars, her own now conspicuously absent. The Humans in the crowd, he noticed, had recently been fitted with them. They kept chafing at them, looking at Irene with wide-eyed terror. Someone was crying, Cerioth did his best to block the sound out from his mind.

When Irene spoke, it was addressed to the crowd at large, and Cerioth shifted even as he kept his head down, careful to listen without being observed to do so. 

“Listen up all of you! I don’t repeat myself and I don’t take questions, so I suggest you do things right the first time. I am Irene, and to you I will either end up being known as Miss Adler, or _Mistress.”_ She grinned ferally at the uneasy murmur that went through the crowd at her words, a red mouth that seemed only fit to grin prettily or to plunge into someone’s jugular. “Which it will be, will be your decision to make.” She purred.

 

The Northern Dragon turned then, and Cerioth saw that the black clothing she wore was crested with the **_Draski_** sigil. She gestured to a blonde woman, the one who had been pretending to be her master for her disguise. Kate seemed to have changed as well, her long blonde locks tied tightly into a high ponytail, and her garb was also jet-black, a uniform. She handed Irene a wooden casket, the kind that looked almost suited for a long necklace. What the Dragon pulled out of it however, was anything but. 

 

Seeing the branding tool from underneath his lashes, Cerioth sucked in a breath. The **_Draski’s_** brand for captured fugitives-made-footsoldiers was a curling Dragon’s tail, coiled about a Human spear. It was a circlet of metal pain when moulded into a brand, and as Irene handed it to a Fire Dragon to heat he could imagine what it would feel like, pressed against the back of his neck, on the sensitive flesh. The echo of heat made him shudder, and he could see reflections of the same panic in the eyes of the soldiers around him. 

 

Irene’s voice echoed out over the compound, and she carried an authority that was difficult to ignore. 

“You’ve all seen today the raw destruction that the resistance can bring, our power. The reign of Humans is over, and you have a choice, all of you. You can choose the path of justice, of _victory._ You can take the branding, become part of the **_Draski’s_** cause.” 

The crowd muttered amongst themselves, a few bold soldiers shouting in outrage. Irene’s smile was cold as she continued, ruthlessly nipping the rebellion in the bud.

“ _Or,_ you can choose public execution! It is your choice, but we offer you an olive branch, a chance to start your life anew, _atone_ for your treatment of my people. Dragons, _Humans-”_ She lifted the smoking brand in the air then, its red-hot glow burning for all to see. The crowd moved restlessly, and Cerioth could see the terror on the soldier’s faces, the uncertainty. “-Choose life, or choose to die along with your archaic _past._ Dragons, _fear not_ the choice to fight! For we have the one thing that the opposing side _does not!”_

 

Irene paused for effect, waiting until the crowd finished their muttering. Her blue eyes glowed in satisfaction when obediently the crowd stilled, looking at her in confusion and some with a wild kind of hope that could only be fed from the imminent risk of death. 

“The **_Hekata Heratha_** lives, my friends! And tonight he has chosen _our side!_ Will you fight for them, friends? Will you fight to save _our_ royalty?”

 

Cerioth’s head snapped up out of his own accord, his eyes widening despite himself. All around him, the Dragons abruptly began to murmur, and this time it was not in fear. It was in _bewilderment,_ shock and a stirring emotion that could only be described as the manic energy of slaves being given _hope,_ for the first time.

He felt something in his heart sink, because Irene’s gaze was triumphant as she looked over the crowd. Her voice held in it promise, and beside her, Kate raised her hand in a cheer, one which became a chant that echoed through the crowd, separating Dragons from Humans in an instant divide. 

**_“Hwoar Hwoar Hekata Heratha! Hwoar Hwoar!”_ **

 

_Long live the bloodline. Long live._


	31. Heat Stroke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who will be making an appearance soon~~ the long awaited mycroft holmes is likely to make an entrance in the chapters to come :P 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the chapter ^_^ my update speed for all of my fics has been slow due to the fact that I've recently moved back to Canada (From the UK) for school :D it's been stressful but exciting to say the least. 
> 
> As always, many thanks to my fantastic beta, Tpurr :)

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Bonding Link (Mates and Bonding):** _During the first phase of a full_ **_Bond,_ ** _Mates will potentially experience a connection of brainwaves and thoughts, particularly if one or both of them is undergoing highly stressful situations. A fully_ **_Bonded_ ** _pair can control this, and can use it to their advantage in order to stay in contact with their Mate over a large distance. However, sometimes the link can be hard to turn off for newly_ **_Bonded_ ** _couples (See page 367 for details). This can cause instances in which the couple might experience headaches, nausea and in extreme cases, nosebleeds and hemorrhage._

 

 

John frowned, reading the report again before looking up in confusion at Hajera, who waited patiently before him.

“Ersa was supposed to be here this morning,” he stated, wondering why Dodge had not checked in at the palace gate yet. She had gone back out to the base late last night, citing that she had received a distress signal on her comm lines from Brigadier Morstan. John had been left behind to look over the Queen, yet now he couldn’t help but wonder if he should have gone with Dodge. 

 

“We’ve received no word of Ersa’s return, sir,” Hajera admitted, a small frown flitting across her features. She anxiously smoothed over the folds of her skirt, darting a chance look up through her lashes towards John. Her dark eyes found his easily enough, though they did not maintain direct eye contact for long. “Should we send out a request to the base, sir?” 

After a moment of consideration, John reluctantly shook his head. 

“Sandstorms are common enough in this area, not to mention bomb threats and random searches. She might have just been held up. If she’s not back this evening though, we should do.” 

 

Nodding in agreement, Hajera curtsied in typical formal fashion before turning away. John watched her receding form flit down the sunlit hall, noting to himself the hunched frame of her shoulders. She always seemed so _worried._ John marvelled at the fact that she never seemed to get any time off, despite being obviously the best at her station.

 

Resolving quietly to himself that he’d ask her out on a break at some point, the soldier shook himself before moving in the opposite direction. He was to guard the Queen’s chambers from the outside as she got ready for her day, the night shift just about to turn over. 

John spared a thought to Sherlock, hoping in the back of his mind that whatever the Dragon was doing, he was safe and unharmed. Hopefully, he thought with a small smile, Mike or Bill had even coaxed Sherlock into eating some breakfast.

 

****

Desert nights were cold, but they were nothing compared to the heat that could set into the desert with the rising of the sun. 

For Sherlock, it was a hell that made his capture worse than it might have been. Even the sand under his boots felt heated, the sun beating down upon his exposed face and neck and causing them to pinken, then burn. He wasn’t built for it, and so it was not long before that burn began to blister, chafing raw against the collar about his neck. 

 

Bill had tied his hands in front of him, the chains once cold metal, now burning into his skin with the sun. If he dragged his feet too much, Morstan would tug to get him to keep up. If he tried to get away, the collar would be used. That much was made clear. Bill set a gruelling pace by foot, too afraid to be spotted to take to the air. He lead the way with a paranoid sort of fashion, gun never leaving his side even as the gold in his eyes seemed to glow like muddy lamplight in the grey of early morning. 

 

As the day wore on, Sherlock realised belatedly that he wasn’t wearing any cooling packs. That was the first of the set of issues. The Northern Dragon could feel heat stroke beginning to set in by noon, and by one, despite his best efforts, he had no idea what direction they were going. His lips felt dry and chapped, and he was too wary of Bill’s gun to risk bringing out his wings for some kind of marginal shade. The desert was unforgiving and brutal, and the land seemed endless and barren to Sherlock, wandering as they were away from all major cities, and all life. 

 

When they did finally stop, it was only because Sherlock’s legs could hold him no longer. He took a step, only to find his knees wobble threateningly. Before he knew it he was falling, landing hard on the desert floor. He didn’t get to stay there long, though. Dazed and breathless, Sherlock rumbled John’s name in confusion, instead receiving a kick to his side. It was sharp, and it made his ribs creak. Groaning, the Dragon rolled weakly over to look up, meeting Mary’s gun and her cold features. 

 

“Get up,” she murmured, the safety clicking off her weapon with deadly intent. Sherlock squinted up at the sun, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. There was a growl of frustration, and then Bill’s silhouette was blocking the sun. 

A moment later, something hard and plastic and wet was being pressed to Sherlock’s lips. A water canister. The Dragon drank greedily, cold refreshment soothing the harsh burn at the back of his throat. It cleared his head, if only a little. 

 

“He’s a Northern Dragon, I forgot they can’t handle this kind of heat.” Bill spat in disgust with himself and with the situation, propping Sherlock up so that he could drink more. 

“We need to keep moving,” Mary retorted, still refusing to move her gun out of Sherlock’s face. He briefly envisioned latching his teeth into her arm, not that he had the strength to do so. 

“Better alive than dead” was Bill’s terse reply. With the water canister emptied, he forced Sherlock back up onto his feet. The Northern Dragon swayed, head a bit less muzzy but the heat still getting to him. 

 

Mary huffed a rather annoyed sigh of frustration at the motion. Her blue eyes were critical. 

“He’s not going to make it to the base at this rate. We need to stop at a village and buy some coolants.” 

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to her gun. Slightly lowered, not paying him any mind. He listened to Bill argue with her heatedly, Rin by his side. 

“We can’t. If he’s recognised, then it won’t matter if he’s alive or dead. His collar’s military-grade, and we’ll have slavers trying to jump us the first time we leave the city. Army Dragons fetch a pretty penny.” 

 

Sherlock began to test the chains holding his hands together. Strong, but not unbreakable. Very few types of metals were, and only slavers tended to invest in them. If he transformed, he’d be able to manage it. The collar was the only problem. As every Dragon has likely tried at some point in their existence, Sherlock knew it would not break. 

Which meant he would have to move fast enough to get out of range. 

 

“Well, do we bring him to the boss dead then? He threatened to skin the last one who didn’t please him.” Mary’s eyes were growing slitted, and when she breathed it was smoky. Fire Dragon, Sherlock’s mind supplied. He’d have to wait until the gun was just the _slightest_ bit more lowered…

“We’ll just have to make do then and hope for the best,” Bill snarled, obviously fed up with the argument. He made to grab Sherlock’s chain, obviously intending to pull Sherlock along. However, Maryreached, pulling the chain out of his range, lifting the weapon more fully in Bill’s direction-

 

Sherlock transformed in a flash, the metal links bending before breaking into pieces. With a roar his tail lashed out, kicking up sand into Bill and Rin’s face. In the process he lashed out with one massive paw, aiming in Mary’s direction. The strike landed, a solid blow across her face. The Dragon shrieked in surprise and pain, human form falling to the ground, blood splattering onto the sand. Sherlock wasted no time, already kicking off from the desert floor. Bill and Rin both roared, blinded by the sand but sensing the wind of Sherlock’s takeoff. 

 

Sherlock wrenched himself up into flight, his wings beating down hard to gain height and momentum. Despite his dizziness, he pushed himself without mercy. 

From below there was a shout, and an instant later an agonizing shock rattled through the Dragon’s bones. Sherlock dropped about ten feet, letting out a wordless snarl of agony. Bill was standing, his eyes red and blind but his hand unwavering about the remote. Rin still writhed at his feet in pain, and his face was twisted in rage. 

_“SHERLOCK!”_ His howl rang in the Dragon’s ears, and Sherlock forced himself to keep going, scrambling to keep aloft despite the pain in his limbs. He had to escape, he _had_ to get to John. The thought propelled him forward, almost as much as the weight of Bill’s betrayal.

 

He had just managed to fly out of the Collar’s range when a gunshot rang out, cracking through the air with an echo. An instant later, raw pain grazed Sherlock’s thigh, skittering off his scales and only just penetrating. Roaring, the Dragon whirled momentarily about, seeking out the source of the bullet. Mary stood rock-steady, her face filled with hatred. Down her left side, a ragged wound bled, cutting jaggedly across the ruined, bloody mess that was her eye. 

Sherlock saw no more, already turning away, flying hard up to the sky and into the arid clouds where he’d be impossible to track or find. 

 

****

The pain came to John, sudden and severe. 

He gasped aloud with it, clutching his leg but feeling no bullet, no entry wound to speak of. It felt as though every inch of him was _throbbing_ , for a moment, and he felt quite suddenly as if he couldn’t quite breathe. In particular, the Bond Mark seemed to burn along his skin. 

 

Rania noticed John’s halt as they walked down the hall, she and Ryuk pausing in question and then open concern as they saw their bodyguard shuddering in pain. A small hand came to rest on John’s shoulder, supporting him even as the Queen asked John what had happened.

“My leg,” John muttered through gritted teeth. The pain was already starting to fade, but the memory of it shook him. He had never felt anything even remotely _like_ that before. “It… Something happened to my leg. It’s going away now… but…”

 

Something dark shifted in Rania’s eyes, and in a low, urgent tone she cupped his chin with her hands, forcing John to look at her. 

“John, has anything like this ever happened before?” 

He was flying. No- No John was standing in a palace, in front of the Queen. Orders to stay by her side. Yet he was also tearing his way towards the sky, the sun hot, _unnaturally so-_

_“Captain,”_ Rania snapped crisply, her smaller form reaching up to clasp his shoulders. John was dragged out of his head with a ragged gasp, blue eyes focusing on her scarred, serious face. 

 

Though Rania’s eyes were sightless and white, they seemed to be staring intently at his features. Wrapped around her shoulders, Ryuk growled. 

“I need you to focus,” the Queen ordered, shaking him slightly for emphasis. John tried his best, tearing his mind away from the images that wanted to flicker in front of his eyes like the flashing images of a camera. “You’re experiencing what’s called a _Bond Link,_ and it’s dangerous if you don’t know how to navigate it.” 

 

Bond Link, and hadn’t John read something about that a while ago? Yet it was impossible, his Bond wasn’t complete with Sherlock-

_Sherlock._

“Sherlock’s hurt,” John gasped, his breath sounding fractured like broken glass. His hand came to press to his mouth, stifling the moan of motion sickness that wanted to rise up. Flying, spinning into the sky. 

“I know John, I _know._ ” Rania was in front of him, but she was more like a painting. A pale image overlaid with the earth shrinking away from his feet, smaller and smaller. How did she know his name? His real name? He had never told her… never spoken it aloud. Code. He was undercover, and yet he was falling. 

“You need to tell me what’s happened. It’s very important that Ryuk and I know.” 

“Why?” John gasped, and quite suddenly he felt like he was snapping back to reality, blinking and seeing the empty hall.

 

Except it was no longer quite so empty, a figure approaching rapidly from the other end of the hall. Cloaked in black, a scarf wrapped about their mouth. Close enough that not even that could disguise those watering eyes, the thinness of the man. In Aamon’s hand, a flash of metal. _Danger,_ John’s mind screamed. 

He didn’t have time to vocalise the fear, because the man was suddenly charging forward, sensing John’s gaze upon him. Rania’s back was turned, and she would not see even if she had been facing him. 

It was instinct for John to shout, reaching out for Ryuk with his mind despite the smattering of scenes and emotions roiling together like a pot set to boil in his head. 

 

_Watch out!_

The small Dragon turned, keen blue eyes slit and muzzle parted in a snarl. John watched in disbelief as the creature’s form seemed to shimmer, transform. Disbelief, because as the Dragon transformed Rania’s milky eyes seemed to clear, crystal blue and reptilian slits. 

John saw a dark, white-haired boy crouched before them in bare nudity, his face scarred and eyes blind. Yet he moved with inhuman speed, surging forward with a snarl at Aamon’s charging figure. Ryuk showed no mercy in his attack, lifting the man up by the throat with one clawed hand. 

 

However John saw no more, because the Queen was suddenly grabbing his hand. She pulled him down a side corridor, the tap of her sandals unerring and unhesitant. _She can see,_ John thought through a haze of confusion. Yet he had no more time for further evaluation, because Rania was twisting him down one hall and through another, weaving through the maze of her Palace, keeping to darkened and unused corridors. 

Under her breath, John realised, she was chanting in Dragon-Tongue. 

 

****

“Hajera!” Rania’s sharp shout alerted John to the fact that they had somehow made it to the servant’s quarters. The noise was enough to knock John out of his shock just a bit, the hum of seeing through Sherlock’s eyes now faded to something dimmer at the back of his mind. 

 

Hajera was in the midst of carrying a basket of clothing to the laundry room, but she turned and then paled upon seeing her Queen. The servant girl took one look at Rania’s eyes and dropped the basket where she stood, hurrying over towards the shadows and away from the line of other servants. 

 

“What’s happened, my lady?” she asked breathlessly, her gaze darting to John and back to Rania’s face with concern. Sweating and feeling ill, John could barely muster more than a weak smile in greeting. He had yet to regain his voice. 

“The assassin showed himself, but that’s not the main concern. Ryuk is taking care of him.” 

“Not the main concern?” Hajera hissed in disbelief, brown eyes wide “To use your spells is to take away years from your life, and yet you claim it to be not a concern?!” She took the Queen’s hands in her own then, and though John was far from his best at the moment, he managed to finally speak. 

 

“What’s going on?” he demanded, trying hard not to sway where he stood. 

“An attempt at revolution,” Rania replied darkly, casting him a glance “And not a beneficial one to mankind.” She spoke to her servant then, trying to soothe Hajera’s distress with urgency. “I need you to take John outside the palace, through the passageways I showed you. It’s vital that he finds his Dragon as quickly as possible.”

 

_“Why?_ And how do you know my real name? What the ever loving buggering _fuck_ is going on here?!” John’s explosion caused Hajera to look at him, scandalised that he would swear in front of royalty. Yet Rania didn’t seem to much care. Instead she took a deep, steadying breath before turning to look up at the soldier. She seemed younger, blue eyes unnatural and large in her face. She looked at him, and her lips were pressed into a thin, white line of stress. 

“John, I don’t have _time_ to answer all of your questions just now. But I can assure you, getting to Sherlock and getting _both_ of you _out_ of Afghanistan is at the moment, imperative to the safety of both Dragons and Humans alike. I’m asking you if you can trust me.”

“Trust you?” John’s voice was thick with disbelief. “How am I supposed to _trust_ you?! An assassin tries to attack you and you’re trying to get your only bodyguard _out of the way._ ”

 

“I didn’t _pick_ you to be a bodyguard!” Rania suddenly snapped, her eyes burning like fire. “Use your head, _John Watson,_ none of your coming here had _anything_ to do with _my_ protection.” She glared up at him, biting her lip to stem her anger. “I brought you here because I had to make _sure_ that what Ryuk, what _I_ suspected was correct. For our informant’s sake.”

“So you’re a spy?” John laughed, but his smile wasn’t friendly. He pulled away from her presence, his gaze hard and cold as he looked between the Queen and Hajera. “You want me to trust you, yet you’re admitting that you’ve been selling me out to some mystery informant. Someone I don’t even _know._ Worse, you’ve been selling out _Sherlock.”_

 

“It’s not what you think, John. _Sherlock_ is not who you think. He’s forgotten, but you need to understand that in the future, the two of you are going to be _hunted._ ” 

Rania stepped near once again, forcing John to look down at her so that he could see the seriousness of her expression. “This assassination attempt...I’m only a bishop on a chessboard, ultimately. You and Sherlock are the key piece, the King to the game.” 

 

“And who’s the queen, then? Your informant?” John demanded. The Queen by way of response only smiled, small and soft. She reached into her neckline, tugging free a charm from the chain she wore. John took it, peering at it curiously. It was a silver umbrella, tipped on its side. 

“My informant has been readying a copter for this moment. He will find you and Sherlock, so long as you bear this.” 

“I don’t understand,” John confessed. 

“You _will,”_ Rania pressed. 

 

John wanted to argue further, in fact he wanted to _scream_ that none of this made any sense. Yet already Queen Rania was shoving him towards Hajera, and he for some reason could only articulate one more question before he was tugged away. 

“You’ll be alright, though?”

Rania grinned, and the expression was surprisingly young, almost wolfish. Her eyes blinked, slits widening much like a cat’s, and around her the air seemed to crackle with Dragon magic. 

“Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be just fine.” 

 

****

Hajera was swift on her feet, a greyhound chasing after a scent and utterly focused. She lead John nearly soundlessly through the halls, ducking into servant’s passageways where the shadows were dark and people looked but daren’t ask questions. 

Unfortunately, just because questions weren’t asked didn’t mean that tongues did not speak. John had let Hajera lead him down an empty, dusty crevice of a servant’s tunnel for the better part of an hour. Here the air was stale and old, and John could taste distantly on his tongue that somewhere there was a breeze, a whispered promise of outside. When there came the distant sound of shouting down from where they came, it sounded a loud echo in the dark. 

Hajera let out a curse in response. John could make out the glint of her eyes in the dark, rounded with fear. 

“We’re almost there. We have to go!”

She tugged him along, faster so that they were running. No longer were they trying for stealth, instead it was a flat sprint down the tunnel, heading towards the exit. Like rats, being herded to the end of the maze. 

 

Daylight blinded John, the sun burning hot against the hand that shielded his face. In the same moment, the crack of a bullet rang out. It nicked the side of the wall, just past John’s left ear. 

Then he and Hajera were outside the palace wall, running into the thick of the city that surrounded the Palace and into the crowds of people. Behind them, John caught a glimpse of a robed figure, dressed in much the same way Aamon had been. When John blinked, he had turned away, unable to find him or Hajera in the middle of Market Day dead in the afternoon. 


	32. Mary Poppins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *claps hands together* who's ready for some angst? I'm ready for some angst~  
> In all seriousness though, the next chapter will mark the end of John and Sherlock's war days, as well as a turn more towards the canon show. To get there though, I'm afraid some violence must occur ^_^ 
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely beta, Tpurr, for working on this chapter. Seriously, you rock.

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**_How to recognise a Dragon in their Human form (a note):_ ** _It occurs to me that many Humans wonder if it is possible to distinguish a Dragon from a Human being, if they truly wished to hide. The short, easiest answer is one that humans as a rule do not like: there isn’t. This leads to the inevitable question then, of why more Dragons do not go into hiding._

_Again, the short answer might be: we do. For you see, even in a world that is as oppressive to my kind as possible, Humans have yet to be able to master the more complex theories and equations that make up the nature of our Magic. The average Dragon cannot hide their true form forever, and it is true that as a result, many are captured. Yet there are more permanent magics, ones that my kind hesitate to use. Their price is costly, and my people often cannot imagine paying the price for them. Yet those who are desperate, and those who have the means… well. Though I promised to be as honest as I can in these records, here I must say no more. There are simply some secrets too vast, too impossibly important, to risk for the sake of knowledge._

 

 

Mycroft Holmes dipped his pen back into its holder with a flourish, his name signed in dark green ink at the bottom of the final document. It sat before him upon his polished office desk, smelling of crisp paper and formality. London’s rare rays of sun were spilling into the office, turning brass-handled doors to fire. The weather was what he was used to nowadays, so he did not squint or struggle. 

 

He startled less often now, when he looked up and instead of frozen mountains and decorated caverns, laid eyes upon a climbing metal metropolis and rain. 

 

Sometimes though, London exhausted him. Today appeared to be one of those days. Mycroft passed a hand over his eyes tiredly, uttering a low sigh. It had been too long since he had given himself a break; surely the world could run itself for a few minutes. A part of him wanted nothing more than to indulge in a nice slice of cake from the bakery down the street, perhaps some tea. Yet the thought of caffeine also made his stomach want to twist itself into complicated knotwork. 

 

His nerves were officially shot, he could admit that. They had been really ever since he had gotten the news, information dredged from an old feeler he had put out, but almost given up hope for. 

 

_Northern Dragon. Registered with the British Army. Fits approximate age and general description. More data being collected._

 

Mycroft hadn’t dared get his hopes up too much. It had happened before, and all leads had ultimately come to dead ends. He knew that the chances of finding his brother had only dwindled with time. In truth, a part of him couldn’t help but acknowledge the fact that if he _did_ find Sherlock, it wouldn’t be the wide-eyed child he held in his deepest memories. 

 

There was also the fear that if this _was_ his brother, then the Dragon was being sent into an active war zone, and there was truthfully little Mycroft could do to stop it without substantial proof of his identity. The thought of Sherlock being out there, being _shot_ at and possibly killed or injured… it had left him wide awake some nights, a horrible mix of hope and dread curdling in his stomach like sour milk.

 

That mixture had only catalysed with the notification which buzzed upon his phone, sitting upon the desk. His agent’s words blinked across the screen, encrypted but easily readable to the likes of him. What he saw made Mycroft’s lips firm into a tight white line, even as his free hand curled into a fist upon his desk. 

 

_Package has been lost in transit. Requesting Mary Poppins._

 

Despite his doubts, Mycroft wasted no time in his reply. 

 

_Implement a spoonful of sugar to help the package be returned._

 

As he set his phone down, his other hand ran through the edges of his thinning hair. So many years, a lifetime for a human to get to this moment. He pretended his hand did not shake as he reached into the bottom of his cupboard, fishing out a decanter of scotch and a tumbler. 

 

****

Hajera stopped by the alcove of an alley, and John watched as from the folds of her dress she pulled out a plain blue scarf. She then proceeded to gather up her hair, tucking it into the scarf and folding it about her head until she looked like a market woman, blended well into the crowd. 

 

She eyed John critically then, taking in his blonde hair and military uniform, his gun and his obvious foreign complexion. Her tongue clucked in impatience, even as she darted a glance about cautiously for onlookers. 

 

_“Your_ appearance is going to be more of a problem,” she admitted, her mouth tightening with displeasure. “Especially when we try to leave the city. They’ll have paid people to keep an eye out for you.”

 

“Who’s paid them?” John demanded, feeling eyes on the back of his neck. A prickle of dread was rapidly beginning to shudder down his spine. Hajera glanced at him, dark eyes sharp as she looked him over. 

 

“Let’s just say you’ve gotten involved with a man that has a lot of enemies.” 

 

She looked critically out from the alleyway they hid in, fingers clutching the sand-blasted stone. 

 

“What good is he then, if his help means that we might get killed?” 

 

“You’d have to ask the Queen that. It was not my decision to contact him in the first place. I’ve got it.” 

 

The servant turned to John then, taking in his clothes critically. He had left wearing the disguise he had been given to protect Queen Rania in, and now he found the fabric clung to him in the sun, sticky and uncomfortable. She approached him, delicate brown fingers reaching up to brush the line of John’s neck. 

 

“They’re looking for a soldier disguised as a servant, but who goes through these streets without so much as a second glance as to their features? Who is invisible to those who seek out power?”

 

She spoke as if she were speaking to herself, but still John understood. His mouth went dry as he looked out at the market, where hundreds of vendors were selling collars, from intricately beautiful to industrial to positively medieval in appearance. The idea of having one about his own neck, something about it made John’s blood ran cold. 

 

“I will have to make the purchase, stay here,” Hajera instructed crisply, already pulling the blue scarf more tightly about her. She stepped lightly into the sunlight, pausing only to give John a look of significance. He watched her go, mentally plucking at the Bond between Sherlock and himself for reassurance. He wasn’t sure if the Dragon could feel it, but it gave John a sense of comfort. 

 

_I’m coming, I swear I’m coming. Just hold on, Sherlock._

 

****

Dodge had never had things handed to her easily. This was a fact about life, that it could be cruel to people no matter if they were kind or cruel. Better to be hard then, to face what came for you with a glower and a stiff upper lip. It saved heartache and it kept you from misstepping, and that lesson had carried with her into adulthood. 

 

She ran a tight ship in the army, only a lieutenant but well on her way to promotion after this draft. She was quick with her orders, prompt with commands given to her, and she was grudgingly admired by her co workers for the ability to stay calm under pressure. Dodge didn’t crack, and if she did it manifested in vicious retaliation, not tears or fear. 

 

What many neglected to notice was that Dodge could also be unfailingly kind. Any soldier would tell you she was loyal to her friends, though they were few and far between. Yet no one thought to look at the fact that Cerioth never seemed to suffer under her care, or that despite her lack of telepathic ability she communicated with Dragons well. She couldn’t disobey direct orders, and she did not have much patience for open displays of affection, but if she could, she did her best to ease the path for others behind her. 

 

Except there was one, unspoken rule that no one acknowledged. It was sometimes whispered, sometimes muttered into bowls of soup or spoken of jokingly. People made jibes about Bonding and _Dragon-Fuckers,_ but the truth was, Dodge didn’t really care. Rumours were rumours, and only she and her Dragon knew the entirety of why their loyalty to each other was cemented. The status of their relationship, though certainly not romantic, bordered on something unnamable, and it had been tread upon with rough boots with this attack. 

 

No one, absolutely _no one,_ was allowed to be cruel to Cerioth. No one betrayed her, and got away with it. 

 

Finally, _no one_ tied her up like a dog and took advantage of her loyalty to military procedure. 

 

Upon being freed from her bonds, she wasted no time in getting to her feet. Dodge took in the soldiers she had been left with, Molly and the fugitive. She had woken to their gentle ministrations inside the shed, the sun having already sunk below the horizon. Checking her belt, she confirmed what she had already suspected: no radio, so no way to communicate with the base. The three of them had been left as scraps, discarded once they had proven to outlive their use. The thought made Dodge’s blood boil. 

 

“Y-you’ll want to be careful, B-Bill hit your head pretty hard.” Molly tried to chasten the lieutenant, but truthfully the woman intimidated her. Dodge was a panther on the warpath, and the knowledge that they had already lost a day thanks to her being out of commission was an inexcusable price. By way of answer, the lieutenant rifled through the small packs of supplies the shed held, few and far between. She found a jacket, and without hesitation flung it in Xavi’s direction. Her orders were crisp, no room for argument. 

 

“Use it to tie your egg to your back. It’s going to be a long night of travel.”

 

The Chinese Dragon looked at her with liquid eyes, unmoving in his shock. He clutched the jacket tightly in his fingers. Dodge scowled, patience wearing thin at being given such a piteous expression. 

 

_“Damn it,_ do you want to wait here until the sun rises? We’re already running low on water.” 

 

She turned to Molly, then, and was pleasantly surprised to see the Fire Dragon already beginning to collect the few energy bars left. Molly, though obviously afraid, seemed determined. 

 

“W-what are we going to do? The base was… Sherlock said it was under attack. They’ve… the resistance never stays in one place too long. They burn everything.”

 

“Scavenge,” Dodge stated plainly “Search for survivors.” She said it like she didn’t really expect there to be any. 

 

Molly swallowed, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. 

 

“And then what?”

 

The lieutenant smiled, but it was not a kind thing. Rather, it was edged like the jut of her shoulder blades as she knelt to sheath a found knife in her boot. 

 

“Then,” She murmured “We look for stragglers to take information from.” 

 

Xavi shifted, and there was the sound of soft fabric being manipulated into a cocoon of sorts. When Dodge looked to him, he was carefully cradling his egg inside of it. His dark eyes were shuttered, and he spoke softly. 

 

“Where will we go… after? Where…Is no place ever going to be _safe?_ ” His jaw clenched, and it was a minute tell. Still, the Dragon seemed to be choking, breathing harshly through his teeth before he could ground himself. 

 

Dodge regarded him a long time, her eyes never straying from the shell of the egg cradled to Xavi’s chest. 

 

“Nowhere’s safe, these days,” she murmured, but her words were not unkind. “But our closest chance of getting backup to help us is back at the compound.”

 

Molly, thinking of Mike, pressed her lips together until they were white and bloodless. 

 

****

The compound was a grey, watermarked shadow in the dark as they approached. It stood with black smoke smouldering, reaching up towards the desert sky as if it were trying to dye the stars. To Molly, it looked sharp and charred and lonely. 

 

Nothing could be heard aside from the sound of their own walking, the clink of Dodge’s military gear and empty holster, and Xavi’s quick breathing. It only sped with the sight of the torn, ragged hole in the barbed fence, crumbled defense towers like broken fingers. 

 

What was worse was the smell. The sour-sweet smell of cooked meat seemed to permeate everything, overlaid with a thick cloak of charcoal. Molly quivered, and as Dodge stepped tentatively into the carnage, she had to force herself to follow. She didn’t want to see what had become of her colleagues, her friends. As she began to see the bodies, lying broken and discarded on the ground, she wasn’t even certain she’d recognise them. 

 

Dodge treated it all with a hard-eyed gaze, neither faltering nor speeding up. She kept the knife from her boot at hand, eyes tracking for any trace of movement. So far, nothing had so much as stirred. The soldier cast a glance towards the rest of her group, voice low and curt.

 

“Search for survivors, take a radio if you find it. Don’t wander too far away.” 

 

Neither of the Dragons argued. 

 

Xavi clutched his egg more tightly to himself as he looked upon the carnage, a sick expression on his face. He had seen this kind of wreckage before, and knew what became of any living “survivors”. He shuddered, and instinctively he allowed his wings to form, creating a further shield about his body. His eyes were golden and slit against the dust and grime in the air, glowing like pitted lamplights. 

 

A sliver of the moon shone through the dust, casting an eerie shadow where Dodge came to a final stop. Her red-brown hair looked like blood under its illumination, and she crouched before a still form. Molly approached at a more hesitant pace, her expression nervous. The lieutenant was scanning a fallen soldier’s uniform keenly, face cast in shadow. She turned to look at Molly, eyes narrowed in thought. Dodge voiced her budding theory, confirming both good and bad news. 

 

“Everything here isn’t breathing. They must have taken captives, or did mass executions.”

 

“Captives.” Xavi spoke up behind them. His eyes were flat and dead. “They… they offer a choice, to them. Join or…” He trailed off then, but the Dragon needn’t have finished the sentence. Molly sucked in a small breath, the noise wounded and small. 

 

“In that case, let’s check the weapons bunker, then head out.” Dodge nodded once decisively, avoiding the turmoil Xavi’s declaration had brought into the air. “We’ll need to be prepared; thieves are common in these parts.” 

 

The clicking noise of a safety being lifted from a gun caused all three of them to still. The dust had hidden a shadow that had approached while they had been speaking. A silhouette stood, weapon pointed in Dodge’s direction. The voice was familiar, although ragged and hard. 

 

_“Drop your weapons.”_

 

Molly stiffened in surprise. Her mouth fell open in a tiny “o” of surprise, and before Dodge could hold her back she had shouted back at the voice, hardly daring to believe.

 

“Mike? _Mike!”_

 

The silhouette seemed to freeze, then cracked like an ice sculpture under pressure. The figure, weapon lowered, slowly approached, and with the clearing of the dust Mike Stamford appeared. He was a mess, his uniform covered with mud and copper, glasses cracked and broken. He smelled of sweat and fear, and he moved cautiously, as if he didn’t quite believe his own ears. As he approached, Mike squinted into the darkness, face smoothing into surprise and relief at who he saw. The man’s shoulders quivered a moment, and then he was running to his Dragon, throwing his arms about her and hugging her tightly. Molly didn’t seem to mind, crying in sharp relief. Her own arms came up to surround his middle. 

 

Mike’s voice was a tight growl, and he shook as a sob loosened the coil of tension he had been carrying with him all night. 

 

_“Thank fuck,”_ he muttered, blue eyes bloodshot as he looked up at Xavi and Dodge. 

 

“I. I thought everyone… I thought I…” He couldn’t seem to finish the sentence, and his face twisted again in grief. He burrowed his forehead against Molly’s shoulder. Mike’s voice was raw. “They took everyone else… _I’m so glad you weren’t here.”_

 

Dodge looked away, but Xavi noticed that she too seemed the slightest bit relieved that something had survived such a horrific ordeal. 

 

****

The collar was a weight that John felt hyper-aware of, something he couldn’t let fade. It shifted against his skin, and though not uncomfortable, he felt often like he was being strangled. His cheeks burned in humiliation every time he listened to the clink of the chain he was being lead upon. John wondered if this was how Sherlock felt, like everyone’s eyes were upon him like he was a piece of meat for sale. If so, the soldier couldn’t blame the Dragon for being classified as a red-card. The urge to punch something was making his hands tremble at his sides. 

 

“You’re too tense,” Hajera hissed lowly at his side. She held onto his chain in one hand, the other directing the small donkey-lead wagon she had purchased as a last-minute decision from a farmer. “You need to make yourself look smaller, blend in.”

 

“I’m trying.” John muttered back. He resisted the urge to scratch at his neck. Sweat felt like it was pooling into the dip of his spine. If he listened intently, he thought he could hear a distant thrum. He liked to hope it was Sherlock, wherever the Dragon was. 

 

_“Try. Harder.”_

 

Hajera put on a fake smile as they approached the edge of the city, towards the border patrol. From lowered lashes, John could just make out the outline of military boots. He grit his teeth against the urge to make sure his back was protected against them. Hunching lower in his seat, he deliberately rounded his shoulders. John did his best to mimic the posture of Dragon’s from his memory. _Small, unseen, and unheard._

 

A rough voice spoke in Pashto, directing Hajera towards them. The man asked what her intentions were, leaving the city, and Hajera conversed with him easily. She spun a lie about needing to visit her sister in the next town over, a few miles to the east. John kept his mouth shut, running his tongue along his teeth. Everything tasted like adrenaline. 

 

Hajera however, was good at her job. She lied effortlessly and convincingly, and with a pretty smile the guard was soon motioning her along. 

 

John quivered in his seat like a violin string pulled taut. The creak of the wagon seemed inordinately loud to his ears. 

 

He nearly dared to breathe when they were about fifty feet past the gate, and Hajera wasn’t gripping the donkey’s reins quite so tightly. John thought to himself that if they actually made it, he’d name the poor animal Lucky. 

 

A gunshot ringing out broke that thought, and Lucky’s ears flattened against its skull. A startled bray left its lips, and John felt the wagon jolt forward. There was a shout behind them. 

 

Hajera’s voice was high as she swore, tight with fear. 

 

_“Dammit all!”_

 

She struck the reins as hard as she could. The donkey, confused and frightened, began to run. 

 

John didn’t look behind him, but he could hear the shouting. The men didn’t seem to have cars, but they were fast on foot and one or two had horses. They shouted unintelligible curses, and the soldier ducked instinctively as another gunshot cracked through the air. The sand beside them exploded in dust, pock-marked with bullets. John reached into the back of the wagon, scrambling for his own gun. The wagon went over a rough bump, and he shouted as he was nearly jostled from the bench. 

 

Hajera shouted even as she gripped his shoulder with one hand, still struggling to control the donkey. 

 

“John! Which direction?!” 

 

_How was he supposed to know?_

 

A part of John thought, even as he aimed his gun carefully at their pursuers. It didn’t have an incredibly long range, but they were beginning to gain on them anyway. His eyes narrows in concentration, grip rock-steady as he aimed. It was without thinking he shouted back. 

 

“South!” 

 

And realised that he meant it. 

 

John squeezed the trigger then, and a gunshot kicked out. It hit its target, one of the men’s horses. The animal let out a whinny of pain, legs stuttering out from under them. The man fell, yelling curses on the way down. John inhaled deeply. He continued to shout instructions in this fashion, even between shots. 

 

“Okay, now straighten the wheels out!” 

 

“Left! _No,_ I mean, your left!”

 

“Keep going for about a half-hour. Keep her steady.” 

 

All the while, the humming in his mind turned steadily into crackling static. John swore that the gun in that moment was a conduit, and he was living electricity. 

 

He shot down one more before he had several misses in a row, the wagon merely too unpredictable and the men now weaving to make themselves more difficult targets. The sun was beginning to sink in the sky, darkness adding another element. Something heavy began to lodge itself into John’s sternum as he looked in front and saw only open desert. At this rate, their pursuers were going to catch up before they lost them. 

 

The humming in John’s mind was starting to become a heartbeat, a subwoofer battering inside of his skull. It was at once distracting and overwhelming. He aimed his weapon once again, swearing as an empty chamber clicked. John crouched back onto the bench, scrambling for more ammunition-

 

A shot rang out, and this time it made its mark. 

 

John’s shoulder was on fire. The static rushed, filling up his ears like an ocean wave. 

 

In the same moment, the wagon jolted. John fell, his grip on the wagon bench falling slack as pain exploded through him. 

 

Somewhere, Sherlock roared in fury. 

 

The sun looked like the petals of an unfolding buttercup to John. He stared at it as he lay on the desert sand. His blood was darkest crimson. Someone was screaming, screaming out his name. There was the pounding of horse hooves, mingling with the sound of Sherlock’s laughter. His Dragon was laughing. John smiled at the sound ot it, such a rare and precious thing. 

 

It turned into his mother’s singing, airy voice quiet. _Don’t wake up your father, John. Don’t wake the Dragon. Be a good boy._

 

He was trying. He promised he was trying. It was hard to be, when he didn’t know how to swim. 

 

The static in his brain sounded vaguely like helicopter blades. _Watson. Stay with us, Watson._

 

How could a helicopter be underwater? John didn’t know, and so he sank into jet-black waves. His eyes closed, and he let his lips part to taste saltwater. 


	33. One And The Same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my beta, Tpurr ^_^
> 
> So this chapter is kinda. the pivotal point?  
> After this we're back in London, my friends. It's been a ride and it will flip back and forth to other characters who are still very much in the thick of things, but. John and Sherlock now have a bit of a break? In theory :P 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the read!

 

**Personal Journal- Mycroft Holmes- June**

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, and I will find myself lost every time at 4 AM when my mind does not sleep.  The human city smells like petrol and restlessness, and it is constantly loud. It wakes me, sometimes, and I forget myself and who I have become. For a moment, I think I’m at home. For a moment, I think I’ll turn over and see not the outline of smog, but stars burning so brightly that they still leave an imprint on my mind._

_…I wish I could make myself stop holding on to such a foolish hope that they might be alive._

 

 

Sherlock crash landed at some point, the heat turning the earth beneath his wings upside down and the sky rightside up. Like a spinning top he plunged, hitting hard sand with a crash that seemed to creak his very bones. He was slow to get up, and even slower to blink away the swimming tide that had become his vision. The Dragon peered up at the beating sun with hate, licking chapped lips with a dry tongue.

 

He did not dare shift back into Human form. For one, his scales offered what little protection he could get from the sun; for another, he was injured. The wound in his leg bled sluggishly, thick droplets splattered the sand, only to be absorbed by thirsty earth. The rusted colour of it made Sherlock woozy, the pain a constantly throbbing ache. He could not fly, but still he pressed forward, intent on the tugging sensation of his Bond.

 

Sherlock had to find John; that was all that mattered right now. John Watson was definitely in danger, and he could not waste time being injured or wanting to pass out. Bill was most definitely trying to give chase, too. Either way, to give up meant certain death, and Sherlock was nothing if not a survivor.

 

The Dragon grit his teeth against the agony of using his injured leg, forcing himself up and onto it. Painstakingly he marched, head bowed against the sun. He wondered absently if he would make it to nightfall. He had to, there was no other way. He could sense through the Bond that John was still far, too far for him to reach. He had to keep going, had to keep moving…

 

It became a mantra in Sherlock’s mind, one that the Dragon repeated on loop after loop in his mind-palace. _John Watson needs you._ Eventually, exhaustion and dehydration turned it into a more base instinct. _Your Mate needs you._

 

Sherlock didn’t have the mental stamina to keep those kinds of thoughts at bay any longer, not out here. Not out in the desert where each claw forward felt like his last. Not while he was still alone and there was the immediate threat of John’s safety. So he didn’t bother to stifle the possessiveness, letting it drive him forward. This was what pushed him to run.

 

A Dragon at full speed could easily outpace the average car, and Sherlock cut a sand-blasted figure on the desert floor as he tore along the sand. Red droplets left a trail behind him for those to follow, but there was little he could do. His scales burned red with pain, and gold with determination. His wings acted as balance if he had to make a sudden turn, tail lashing out like a whip to keep him upright around tight bends. His eyes were slits against the sun. It was a race against his own body, and Sherlock had no choice but to press through it.

 

He ran for several hours, his pace only increasing upon sensing John’s distress through their Bond. He ran even as he could taste a sour flavour on the back of his tongue, his body beginning to burn. Sherlock ran even when the fragile skin of his wings began to flake, peeling under the harsh onslaught of heat and desert. His nails began to crack and bleed, he felt like a vice was coiled about his lungs.

 

Sherlock made it, flinging himself forward just as a bullet cracked through the air. The Dragon watched in slow motion, seeing the donkey-drawn cart in the distance judder with the hit. He watched through eyes that were at once his own and yet not as a blonde figure crumpled, falling from the seat. The Dragon felt a ghostly echo of agony tear its way through his shoulder.

 

He let loose a roar that seemed to shake the very sand beneath him. Sherlock, uncaring of how it pained him, threw open his wings. He caught the air, speeding towards John even while in the pit of his lungs ice sprung forth, steaming as it came into contact with desert heat.

 

The men pursuing John didn’t stand a chance, not against a fully enraged Dragon bent on their destruction. Sherlock was like a vulture, swooping down and plucking them from their saddles like rabbits left for slaughter. He threw them without mercy back towards the ground, freezing some and dismembering others. It was a savage attack, and somewhere inside of himself Sherlock knew if John was alive, he would disapprove. Yet that in itself drove the Dragon to tear, to bite and rend flesh from bone. John’s welfare should never be put into question, and the fact that it was made Sherlock’s heart pound eratically and his vision sear crimson.

 

Except that none of it happened, not really. For Sherlock blinked and like a mirage the scene vanished before him, his jaws closing in around air. A vision from across the Bond, made real by heat exhaustion. The Dragon’s legs trembled, and a moment later they gave out.

 

Sherlock collapsed to the ground, a serpentine trail of dust dragging behind him. Black dots whorled in front of his vision, and it was not long before the Dragon sunk deep into darkness, pulled by heavy chains of pain and fear.

 

He dreamed of John, and he dreamed of waking up back in a cage, cold and alone and starved to half-madness. He dreamed of snow, and a shadow screaming his name as his burning fingers lost his grip on stone. The shadow continued screaming, even as he fell from a cliff-face, down _down_

_D_

   _O_

_W_

_N._

 

****

The sound of helicopter blades cut through the desert air like a scythe, louder than locusts and with a wind that tugged at the disheveled scarf around Hajera’s face.

 

She hardly noticed, her mind and hands made busy by far more pressingly urgent matters. Her fingers were slick with blood as she held John down onto the desert sand, pushing scraps of fabric against his shoulder. Her hands were stained red, the cloth was stained too. The desert ground around them was a halo of rust, and John’s eyes fluttered with delirium and pain. He let out an inarticulate howl of agony as Hajera jostled his body, forced into doing so because he wouldn’t stop trying to curl in on himself.

 

“Watson! John, hang on!” she snapped, though her words felt empty. Hajera knew what a fatal shot looked like, and with no medical aid this was fast becoming one. The men in the distance were fast-approaching, and the pounding of her own heart made her vitally aware of the fact that she was running out of time and out of options.

 

Hajera’s head lifted, desperately searching the darkening horizon for a small glimmer of hope. Pressed to the rapidly-growing stain of the makeshift bandage, her hands clutched the small umbrella charm. It too, was becoming soaked with red. She wondered if it would damage the tracking. She wondered if when John fell, he damaged it. She wondered and wondered until all she could hear was the keening sound of John’s breath, an animal filled with fear and confusion. Hajera could taste her own terror, and she spared a thought for her queen and for the country that she loved, despite all of its flaws. She felt her resolve hardening. The trembling in her hands stilled.

 

Somewhere overhead, the faint thudding of helicopter blades filled her hearing like a cold rain dousing arid sand.

 

****

_John blinked awake, uncertain of where he was or exactly how he had come to be here. His memories were discordant chords, chiming in such a way that lingering too long on sour notes gave him a headache. His mouth felt dry, and he licked chapped lips slowly, peering tentatively around himself._

 

_What greeted him was inky darkness, black and yawning and infinite. It stretched out before him like an elastic, seemingly endless. John felt a prickle of fear as he looked upon it, crawling up his spine like shivering spiders. He resisted the urge to flinch from it, the weight of the darkness surrounding him and pressing. It was a weighted blanket, almost corporeal in form, more so than his own body. A strange, phantom echo of pain lingered in his leg and shoulder, twin blossoms of sensation anchoring him in place._

 

_Somewhere in the dark, a voice told him to hold on. It wasn’t a voice he recognised. Clinical, detached, it fell swiftly from his mind like discarded cards._

 

_What fanned out before John instead was not reality, but the lingering flavour of a dream. Cloud-like and wispish, it painted the darkness in a child’s craftsmanship. Primal colours, basic sounds and shapes. An idea of what a picture should be, but fuzzy and indistinct. It was as if John were looking at the concept of someone’s life, cut-out and cardboard and false, like one of Harriet’s dollhouses._

 

_He stood on the frigid silhouette of a mountain, the phantom bite of a cold wind running straight through him. He felt distinctly smaller than he thought he was, normally, and despite the snow on the ground felt no real chill. Instead, his skin felt the brush of softest furs, a cloak wrapped up to his ears, keeping him safe and comforted._

 

_He was following someone, a person that he thought he knew and yet didn’t. They were a hazy image, the face blurred into oblivion. The faint colour of their hair- shocking ginger, seemed more real to John than the hand that was offered to him. A voice, unfamiliar and yet filled with affection, called a name that was not his own._

 

**_“Sherlock, come on! We’re going to be late for dinner at this rate because of you!”_ **

 

_John felt his own vocal chords thrum with sound, high and childlike. He could not understand the words. The other figure laughed at whatever he must have said, the hand outstretched coming to tousle John’s curls (curls? When had…._

 

**_“If you can’t keep up I’ll leave you behind to find your own way home.”_ **

 

_The tone of the person’s voice implied that it was very much an empty threat. John felt an unfamiliar surge of emotion in his chest for this person, affection. It was alien to him, felt by him but not manifested by his own mind. He realised then, the pieces coming together in his mind. At the same time, he felt Sherlock’s consciousness for a moment split from his own, felt the Dragon’s presence at his side._

**_“Sleep, John. This is all just a bad dream.”_ ** _Sherlock spoke, and at the same time the image (memory?) fractured. Like a stained glass window cracked, the pounding in John’s head suddenly sharpened. The pain in his shoulder, in his leg shrieked, and he gasped with the agony of it. His mind shuddered away from such pain, and distantly he felt his own body seize, unfamiliar hands holding him in place._

 

_Underwater._

_Drowning._

_Shot._

_Helicopter._

 

_John’s mouth opened to scream, but what came out of his lips was the prickling growth of fangs and the ragged roar of a Dragon, wounded.  He was free of his skin, of the husk that was just **J O H N   W A T S O N.** He was in pain, and his **Mate** was in pain, and they were a synchronised chain of agony. _

_He was Sherlock, he was younger versions of himself. He was a Dragon, he was cowering from his dad, who was screaming at the top of his lungs. He was falling apart, he was flying. He was spiraling down towards the desert floor. The image melted into tumbling from a cliff, a freckled hand outstretched towards him, an unfamiliar voice shrieking his name over the howl of a blizzard’s wind._

 

_Then the moment ended, and Sherlock’s voice was wrapping itself about him like a life preserver, a net of safety. John curled into it, fell deeper within himself._

 

 **_“Don’t wake the Dragon, John,”_ ** _his mother whispered. Yet that was impossible. He **was** the Dragon, just as Sherlock was a **soldier.**_

 

_Like the crack of a gun was helplessly entwined with the hot-metal sensation of being shot, they could not be separated. They were a perfect mixture, homogenous and one._

 

_They were both **the same.**_

 

****

The hum of the helicopter blades was a lull that made Hajera’s bones hum and her head spin. Seated as she was in the cockpit, it felt as though the noise of it consumed her, making nothing quite real. The woman who was bandaging a cut over her left eyebrow crisply informed her it was probably the beginnings of mild shock.

 

Glancing at the woman’s clean-cut uniform, pinstriped and immaculate, Hajera accepted the answer. Nothing else seemed to make sense. Next to her rescuer, she felt rather like a pauper, sweaty and covered in someone else’s blood, battered and dehydrated.

 

John was in worse condition, lying down across from her on a stretcher, his vitals being watched by a medic and his assistant. They had begun the process of cleaning and bandaging the soldier’s wound, and John mumbled throughout it in a delirious haze of confusion. His eyes moved restlessly behind his eyelids, and occasionally he twitched, as if jerking away from some unseen obstacle. That however was not the strangest thing about the man.

 

His upper torso bare, Hajera found her gaze drawn to the twisting mass of black and blue ink that seemed to be crawling along John’s arms and across his chest. It was a Bond Tattoo, but it was rare in that it was incomplete. It writhed with the pain of its host, snowflakes and mechanical gears, a flickering mirage that never lingered too long in one form. One second, it was a mountainous landscape, the next the rotting branches of a tree outstretched towards the sky. Back to snowflakes and maze-like designs, it shuddered sickly. Damaging it, John’s shoulder wound was a red maw, breaking up the design.

 

Hajera couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from John’s shoulder, still a horrific scene despite all that these strangers were doing for him to limit the carnage. She wondered if a Bond could be dealt a blow by physical wounds. Certainly, the Magic that twisted over John’s body seemed to be in distress.

 

“He’s going to be touch and go, at least until we reach his Bonded,” the woman in pinstripes said, interrupting Hajera’s thoughts. She was seated beside her, and at a glance appeared more focused on her phone than the conversation she had initiated. In her hand was a pair of headphones to muffle sound, a twin to the one she wore. Her dark brown eyes never strayed from the screen as she spoke, yet there was a level of certainty in her voice that for some reason calmed Hajera. “My employer sends his gratitude with me, by the way. We are aware of the sacrifices you and your queen must have made to get Watson out of the city.”

 

At the mention of Queen Rania, Hajera’s spine stiffened. She flicked her gaze towards the woman, reluctantly hopeful. Her hands reached for the headphones, and she found to her delight that they made it easier to drown out the helicopter’s din.

 

“You’ve heard from my queen, then?”

 

“Unconfirmed,” the woman denied, jerking her chin in negativity. “We received intel about twenty minutes ago, but are as of yet unsure that it was sent by the queen herself. We’re awaiting confirmation now and working with your government to reach a more immediately stable political situation.”

 

She seemed to remember herself then, and dark eyes blinked up from her phone’s screen to offer Hajera a half-hearted look of sympathy. “You can call me Anthea. I suppose you have only my word, but I am head of the ‘Mary Poppins’ subset of my employer’s special forces.”

 

Out of her pocket, Anthea pulled out a silver-crested badge. Hajera glanced at it, seeing English lettering and intrinsic British stoicism in the woman’s countenance. She had a face that was a closed door, giving away nothing but a polite smile and a likely false name. Hajera accepted it, for the moment. She had little other choice.

 

She took a deep breath, and with the motion her shoulders sagged, her hair creating a curtain that hid her face. Safe. For now, everyone she needed to protect was as safe as they could be.

 

“I’m Hajera,” she murmured in kind to Anthea, who for the first time gave a small, sardonic smile.

 

“I know,” she rejoined, the faintest bit of humour warming her tone. “You should try to rest, Hajera. Once we collect Sherlock, it’ll be a long ride back to a private plane, and then a longer plane ride to an airport.”

 

She cryptically went back to her phone, not bothering to explain any further.  

 

They rode in relative silence for a while longer, the only sounds being the medic occasionally asking his assistant for some tool or another. John’s breathing was a rough, laboured thing, but it stayed consistent. For that much, Hajera thanked God.

 

After what felt like a small eternity of flying, there was a crackling over the intercom of the speakers. The pilot’s voice, a woman’s, spoke crisply into the line. _“A, I think I found the package.”_

 

Anthea, pressing a button on the side of her headset, replied. “Roger that, brace for landing and retrieval.”

 

At that same moment, the slapdash collection of monitors watching John’s physical state began to wail in protest. Hajera whipped her head about to look, only to see the medics holding down the soldier’s convulsing form with an expectant air. There was a terrible, inhuman snarling coming from John’s lips, and his teeth looked nearly pointed in the dim light of the chopper.

 

Hajera felt a cold sweat begin to trickle down the back of her neck. The copter began its descent, and in that instant, John’s eyes opened to stare blankly at nothing. One was the colour of John’s normal cobalt hue, almost hazel. The other was a cold cyan, wintery and nearly colourless.

 

Outside, something roared.

 

****

**_“Johnny? Be a good boy, Johnny. Do what your father says.”_ **

 

_Sherlock felt a hand patting the top of his head, another handing him a ziploc lunch. Brown bread, cheese and lettuce and ham. His mouth watered at the sight of it, a belly that was not his own growling hungrily._

 

_When he later bit into it, the sandwich turned into a beating heart, stringy and wet and warm in his hands. He continued to eat happily, a Dragon’s constitution far sturdier than that of a Human child._

 

_The dream warped like that, sometimes. If he didn’t focus on it, he couldn’t hide in it properly. Sometimes, Harriet would tell him he looked odd. Other times, he’d see his own reflection, John’s but… not._

 

_One and the same._

_One and the same…_

 

_The bite of a belt buckle on his shoulders echoed with the sting of whips and shock collars. His mother was singing. His mother? No… John’s mother._

 

_Sherlock hummed the tune, even as he stitched up his own wounds. The thread kept breaking; he couldn’t keep it whole…_

 

**_John._ **

**_John, wake up._ **

**_I don’t like it here...I don’t like these memories...I don’t like this place._ **

 

_Even with the singing, they were strange and surreal, twisted by Sherlock’s own dehydration and John’s own fear. He’d cry, but Human tears tasted like salt and he was already thirsty. Humans were so emotional, always crying, always happy or sad or mad or excited...It was overwhelming._

 

_So thirsty…_

 

 _As one, John and Sherlock’s body fell to their knees._ _Their bare shins pressed into mountainous snow._


	34. Hiraeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hiraeth"- A homesickness for a home you can't return to, or never was. 
> 
> Hey there, so thank you so much for waiting for this chapter, it was a bit delayed due to some unexpected complications. I'm also going to admit that due to some of these complications, my updates will be slow for a while. The first was the Orlando shooting, which was a rather heavy event that made both writing for myself (editing for my beta) difficult. 
> 
> The second event is of a more personal nature, as my grandmother has very recently passed away. I will admit I am doing my best to update with chapters I have already written out, but for the next few weeks things are going to be rough. Thank you for your understanding, and I hope you enjoy the read. 
> 
> This chapter was edited by the lovely Tpurr, and I thank her for it.

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

 

**_Skin-Changer (Blood Magic):_ ** _There are many different kinds of Magic Dragons can use, and they come with varying degrees of strength and price. All Magic comes at a cost, but **Blood Magic** as a rule tends to fall into the category of permanent sacrifice. It is a Magic designed to permanently change a facet of one’s being, a trait that is seen as undesirable to the user (see page 542 for further details). In particular, “Skin-Changer” is a cruder term for a Dragon that has given up their true form. There are a variety of reasons a Dragon might choose to do this, whether for their own safety, or in order to gain an ability of whatever creature they’ve chosen to become. It is a permanent change, and it requires no small amount of Magic and skill. What’s more, a Dragon must be entirely willing to give up their wings, the sensation of feeling at home entirely in their skin. To be a “Skin-Changer” is to reject being a Dragon in its entirety, and many Dragons regard it was a grave and terrible choice to have to make. _

 

 

The first thing Sherlock became aware of was the absence of heat. To a Northern Dragon, Afghanistan was a boiler, and he had grown accustomed to sweating constantly, to sunburn and fatigue. The air around him felt cool, nearly cold. It was pleasant, and he lay there for a moment with mindless relief, drinking the sensation in. If this was a dream, he didn’t want to leave it.

His eyelids and his limbs felt heavy, as if they hadn’t been used for some time. Like dragging through wet concrete, the Dragon struggled to move. Sherlock grunted with the effort, belatedly noting that at some point he had shifted into his Human form. His eyes opened painstakingly, and as his vision focused, the sight of white walls greeted him. There was an itching in his right eye, an ache that wasn’t leaving. He pressed his ring finger to the sensation, trying to blink it away. Slowly, Sherlock sat up.

He found himself in a soft bed within a clinically sterile room, the sight jarring after months being encased in sweat and grime and dust. This alone screamed to Sherlock that something major had happened while he was out. A bit like expecting a step on a staircase that didn’t exist, his stomach flipped with disconcertion. A growl left his lips as he took in the unfamiliar clothes that he wore, a simple white shirt and grey sweatpants. Most unsettling of all, there was an absence of weight about his neck.

For the first time in years, Sherlock had no collar about his throat. The absence of it was like a burn, impossible to ignore and entirely frightening. A lack of collar meant only three possibilities, and none of them were positive:

One, something had happened to John, and as such he was now a Dragon up for auction (A lack of collar meaning his tags were being reordered). This was an option Sherlock’s mind shied away from, something painful and raw and _wrong_ screaming inside of his chest. His mind reached for John’s and found only silence. He tried not to let that crawl over his skin, his mind literally blocking the notion from manifesting into being.

Two, whoever had helped him was also completely sure that Sherlock would not attack him if given the chance (a foolish notion and one the Dragon bared his teeth at in derision).

Three, unforeseen circumstances.

The last one could mean anything, and by direct correlation it was yawning and frightening.

He pushed the sheets of the bed aside and rose, vaguely noting the expensive thread count. Sherlock padded his way barefoot towards the door, finding it almost a relief to note it was locked. This was familiar, being trapped. He could work within these parameters. The Dragon looked around, noting that there were no windows of any sort, and no way to note the time. His internal clock guessed it to be early afternoon, but that was an approximation at best. In truth, he’d prefer a clock. There wasn’t much in the room save for a small table and some magazines.

Sherlock’s next thought was to his leg, which he noticed was no longer hurting him quite so badly. Looking down, the Dragon noted that it had been bandaged. The state of it suggested he had been asleep for a while, as it only stung when he leaned too much upon it.

The Dragon’s thoughts inevitably turned to John then, and the frustrating mental barrier that seemed to be blocking him from recalling where his companion was. He could remember running from the base, could remember Bill’s betrayal and Mary’s scream as he’d struck her… Yet beyond that a gaping wall of white noise only greeted him. It was beyond irritating, and Sherlock huffed in displeasure. A growing worry was beginning to build within him, and with it the itching in his eye grew. He rubbed at it with the back of his hand, his upper lip curling into a snarl.

Sherlock needed to find John, and he needed to escape this cell of white walls and bland sterility. That decided, the Dragon prepared to Shift. He braced his palms against the cool tile floor, eyes slipping shut to reach his true self, tucked away under the mask. He was interrupted by a sharp rapping on the door, breaking him from his single-minded mission.

It took Sherlock a long moment of silent staring in the door’s direction to realise that whoever was on the other side was awaiting his signal to come in. It was a peculiar feeling, to be given the option of privacy. The Dragon comforted himself with the knowledge of the camera, tucked into the high ceiling of the room. It was an illusion, this free choice. A test and nothing more.

His hands tightened at his sides, and his voice rang out in growling answer.

“Come in.”

 

****

Mycroft Holmes hadn’t known what to expect really, when the helicopter had landed on his private launchpad outside a private hospital building in Sussex. He had been prepared for a number of different scenarios, the best being that this Dragon was his brother, the worst being that he had risked his position of power for another false lead.

He had not been expecting the level of chaos that had descended upon the hospital upon the helicopter’s arrival. Mycroft had watched as his staff tore down the hall, trying to hold down a bleeding, dying man even as they barked terse orders at one another. Through the grime, the soldier had been recognisable from his reports: John Watson, now in the middle of a damaged Bond. Broken. Shouting unintelligibly. Behind John, a bed that held a Dragon that was at once a stranger and an aching memory.

Mycroft barely had to glance at him to know, deep in the pit of his chest. His search had come to an end. It was Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, For a moment, his legs had wobbled beneath him. His suit felt all at once too heavy, the air too thick. He leaned against the nearest wall for support, his head falling into his hands.

He had been afraid then, though he’d kept a cool enough demeanour. Anthea still could read him, marching in afterwards at a far more sedate pace than the medics had. Beside her, an unfamiliar woman floated, out of place in such a sterile environment, her head down and her hands clutched in her muddied skirts. She spoke Pashto, but that was not a problem. Mycroft had been brushing up on the language for quite awhile now.

“You are… my queen’s ally,” she murmured, more of a statement than a question. Dark eyes regarded Mycroft warily, reading his tall figure. Ever the diplomat, he’d extended his hand in welcome. His accent was likely a little rusty, but passably decent.

“I am. You must be Hajera.Your queen has spoken highly of you many times in her notices.”

The woman blushed, the colour bright along her cheeks. She shook Mycroft’s hand like she was shaking hands with an alien creature, uncertainly and with no small amount of fascination in her gaze.

Fortunately, Anthea was always one to break the ice that Mycroft tended to cultivate about himself. She stepped forward, delivering a crisp report.

“We found them a few miles from the main city, sir. John Watson is definitely in critical position, but Sherlock appears to be merely suffering from severe heatstroke. I say “merely” only because by contrast John went into cardiac arrest before we landed.” She stated the last part dryly, as if it were an everyday occurrence in her profession. Mycroft supposed that in some ways it was.

“I had two rooms set up for them, but I noticed the Bond on the soldier’s arm. Chances are if my brother is experiencing a newly-acquired Binding he’ll not want to stray too far from this ’John Watson’s’ side.” His mouth twisted in thought, and his pale eyes hardened. “I want you to gather all information you have on this man and the people Sherlock has been living with these past months, Anthea. As it stands now, I do not like how much is unknown about my brother’s mental state.”

She nodded in affirmation, saluting him with a smart flick of her hand.

“I understand, sir,” she murmured. Her dark eyes flicked to Hajera, wordlessly taking on the mantle as guide for their unprecedented guest. Anthea lead the woman away, Mycroft watching their departure down the hall.

He deliberated a moment longer, his hands curling and uncurling about the handle of his habitual umbrella. Finally, Mycroft sighed to himself. Best to face the situation head-on. If the Dragon currently being held in an isolated hospital ward was anything like the Sherlock he’d once known, no holding containment would keep him imprisoned for long.

Even as a child, the youngest Holmes had been a handful. He shook the cobwebs of nostalgia out of his mind. It wouldn’t do to make assumptions, not in this situation. Mycroft knew it would be best to treat Sherlock as what he was: a stranger, now. With the delicacy of the situation at hand, his brother was likely to be confused, disoriented, and upset. Acting friendly when he wasn’t even sure Sherlock would recognise him could just cause an unwanted hostile reaction. This was a Dragon that had spent many years of his life enslaved, beaten and generally mistreated. He was angry. Worse, he was likely desperate. Mycroft needed to distance himself, because if he didn’t the boy inside him that had watched his brother fall from a mountain’s edge wanted to roar in defiance.

There was a treacherous voice whispering in the back of his mind that he would not succeed in this endeavour to remain impartial. Mycroft ignored it, deciding to give his brother an hour to wake up before he’d attempt contact. He’d get some tea, first. He had a sneaking suspicion that this was going to be a rather long, painful day.

 

****

The man that greeted Sherlock was unfamiliar, but by far not the worst-case scenario. Worst-case would be an enemy, and though Sherlock was not yet certain as to the intentions of this man, there was the possibility that said intentions were not negative.

His hands curled and uncurled into loose fists at his sides as he watched the stranger before him with guarded eyes. At a glance, this man was Human, and rather polished compared to the soldiers and civilians Sherlock had grown accustomed to. He wore a dark grey suit, three-piece perfection that made his already considerable height appear lengthened. A nose that appeared tailor-made for looking down on those deemed unworthy took up most of the man’s face, and pale eyes contrasted against dark auburn hair, beginning to thin from stress.

Sherlock absorbed all of this within a heartbeat, hardly daring to blink or move. His eye itched, but he dared not close it. Not when there was a potential threat before him. Slowly, he bared his teeth.

The man took in the tension in Sherlock’s spine calmly it seemed, for he didn’t appear overly concerned. In fact, he seemed to expect it, and a part of the Dragon chafed at being read as predictable. There was something unsettling about the way the man looked at him, as if he were peeling back the layers of his skin. Sherlock felt as though he were being regarded as a  poorly made paper mache piñata, colourful on the outside but filled with nothing but cheap candy within.

“Who are you?” he growled, ignoring his unease. The man arched a brow, something bemused crossing his features. He tapped the end of a long, black umbrella upon the ground. When he spoke, Sherlock was surprised to hear the crisp and polished sound of an upper class, British accent.

“You always were one to dive headfirst into bluntness. I suppose I’m glad that wasn’t stolen from you.” He said this almost conversationally, as if he expected Sherlock to have some kind of reply.

A thick, sticky silence stretched outwards when the Dragon didn’t respond, instead merely narrowing his eyes in open distrust. Sherlock’s head tilted to the side in a reptilian, calculating fashion. He was mildly unsettled when the man before him copied the movement effortlessly.

Sherlock normally kept his deductions to himself, or spoke them to John. Now, they were weaponized javelins, intent on getting a read where right now he only saw a frustrating blank slate.

“You’d sleep more if you cut back on the amount of caffeine you consume. What’s that… six cups and it’s only about one in the afternoon?”

He was only slightly surprised when his own weapon was thrown back at him, the man’s voice faintly amused.

“Talking to me about my tea-drinking habits is a bit rich don’t you think? Considering you took on a budding smoking habit from one of the soldiers on your compound and are hiding it from your partner. The nicotine stains on your ring finger are starting to become noticeable, by the way.”

“You’re well-educated, and judging from the suit and posture well used to authority and not used to being surprised. I surprise you, although I can’t imagine why as I don’t think I’ve ever met you before. You seem to have some kind of vested interest in me, not John. That’s peculiar. What Human would be interested in another’s Dragon?”

The man smirked in something akin to approval. “The obvious answer would be that I am not a Human.”

Sherlock blinked, his face momentarily a blank canvas. He peered more closely a moment, before the furrow of his brow smoothed over in realisation and sudden interest.

 _“Oh,”_ he breathed, pale eyes sparking “Of course. _Stupid._ The Magic’s costly but not unheard of, and there would be no other way for a Dragon to rise so highly in power... You’re a _Skin-Changer._ ” The word was crude, foul in Dragon culture. Yet the man before Sherlock didn’t bat an eye. He merely shrugged, accepting the title. It was a term that Sherlock realised he likely was used to. Still, the concept was something that even Sherlock found basely horrifying. Something primal at the back of his brain rejected the concept, the idea of giving up something so integral to his being in exchange for disguising one’s nature.

“One does what one must, when one has a goal before them that is greater than themselves,” the man murmured, seeming to once again read his thoughts. Sherlock growled, a subsonic noise that vibrated in his bones and would make the hair at the back of a normal man’s neck stand on end. It was the sound of a predator, inhuman and wild.

“This is not Afghanistan,” he stated, the obvious now more apparent. All of this was too organised, too precisely serendipitous to be arranged by Draski terrorists or otherwise.

“No, it is not,” the man agreed.

Sherlock’s eye, the one that had been itching, began to throb. He resisted the urge to close it, an image blinking into existence in the back of his eyelid. It was more of an impression, a suggestion of a memory. Cold snow, a freckled hand reaching for him. Like a wisp, it was too soon gone.

The man sighed, seeming to debate extending his hand in a professional greeting. He decided against it, seeing Sherlock obvious unease. Instead he introduced himself. “Sherlock, my name is Mycroft Holmes.  I am a government official, operating under the MI26 division of the military for our Queen and country. I am also a Dragon, a fact that most political figures do not know and for obvious reasons, _cannot_ discover. I do not know how much you remember of a life before your enslavement, or if you can recall my name at all. As it stands, I’m operating under the assumption, nay, the hope that it will come back to you in time. Our story is a long one, and I doubt you would believe it, even if I told you. Please understand that even if you do recall my name, my face, I do not expect anything of you. Recovering you and your...John Watson has been a personal project of mine for some time, one I often thought to be a hopeless endeavour. As it stands, it seems fate has been so unkind as to return you to me in the midst of a likely bloody revolution. Some delicate strings had to be cut in order to remove you from that situation, and as a result… I am afraid that things are about to become uglier.”

“Where’s John?” Sherlock whispered, because this, _this_ was ringing alarm bells through his mind. Something was shrieking inside of him, a sick feeling of deja vu that was leaving him ill. Mycroft merely regarded him with a flat intelligence.

“He is being taken care of, looked after by the best medical staff money can buy. I can assure you that much. Before you ask, I’m sure you’ve inferred his state is rather critical. Your Bond’s been warning you of it for some time now, as I’m sure you’re picking up on.”

So that was the twitchiness, then, the phantom ache in Sherlock’s shoulder. He resisted the urge to touch on the sensation too much, afraid to be sucked into John’s pain. He blinked, and again behind his eyelids he caught snippets of another place, another time. Falling, unable to fly. Cold _so cold._

“Am I a prisoner to this room? I can assure you that if I am, this will not be a conversation that ends well,” he stated icily.

“Not to this room, but to this floor, for now,” Mycroft compromised. His voice brooked no room for argument. “Few people know of your existence at the moment, and believe me right now when I tell you that damage control is necessary in your reveal.”

“Sounds like I’m rather popular,” the Dragon quipped sarcastically “I had no idea.”

Mycroft’s smile was darkly amused, fleeting across his face like the shadow of a dark storm.

“Truly, you don’t.”

He tapped his umbrella on the floor once more, a dismissal.

“I’d invite you for tea, but something tells me you are uninterested. Please follow regulations on this floor, but feel free to explore if you feel well enough. If all goes well, you should be able to see John in twenty-four hours. Until then, anyone with an official name-tag knows to help you should you ask for aid, and knows what questions they can and cannot answer.”

Sherlock was furious. Free of the collar, but now trapped like an animal in a zoo. He snarled, wings stretching and growing out behind him. They were thunderous grey, frost leaving his lips.

Mycroft merely had the gall to look unperturbed.

“I would not do that if I were you. This floor is also under heavy surveillance. You might manage to kill me, but if you do, your one ally in this Country will be gone,” His voice lowered, something steely edging his polite tone. “Like it or not, we’re stuck with one another, I’m afraid.”

“Whatever you want from me, I’ll die before I give it to you,” Sherlock growled. Everything came with a price, this time his freedom, access to John. He was tired of it, tired of having no control over where he went, what he did. Something black and jagged was rising within him. Something hateful. He hated this stranger in this suit, hated the way his head was pounding. Mostly, Sherlock hated the small, sad smile the man levelled at him. Pitying.

“You’re in luck, then. I don’t want anything from you. Nothing at all,” Mycroft turned then, deliberately giving Sherlock his back. Knowing the Dragon wouldn’t attack him, wouldn’t dare. It was confusing. It was enraging. Mycroft’s voice was soft, an afterthought. It was as if he almost didn’t expect Sherlock to hear him, though he stood only a few small feet away. “It’s good to see you.”

He sounded somehow, sad.


	35. Caged, Captured, Trapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you! yes you!! wanna know more about the world I've built for this story?
> 
> Check the endnotes once you're done reading ^_^
> 
> As always, thanks to my lovely beta, Tpurr!! you are fantastic and amazing. Thank you for all you do.

 

**Personal Journal- Mycroft Holmes- June**

_I found my brother, but he is... not the Dragon he once was._

_I didn't expect him to be, of course... I've changed as well. Still, it is... awkward. He doesn't remember, and perhaps he does not wish to, and I am hesitant to remind him. Call me selfish, but I wish to keep what little civility I can. If Sherlock were to remember how I failed him... How I failed everyone, I don't think I could keep him here. Even with John, I don't think he'd stay._

_I have grown old, and I have grown sentimental. In the end, my heart's begun to outweigh my mind. Our mother would be rolling in her grave._

 

 

At first, Sherlock was agitated by every small inconvenience that was brought his way, here in this gilded cage he was learning to call home. The hospital was quiet, too quiet to be a public space, and starkly clean in a way that he found made his skin itch. The Dragon wandered the halls at first just trying to find a crack in what seemed to be an impenetrable fortress, sharp eyes picking out any weaknesses that could be gleaned from the staff or the integrity of the building’s structure. He found both frustratingly solid, the nurses and doctors unfailingly polite but blank, the windows outfitted with bulletproof glass. Everything was made for safety, and all of it was boring and painfully absent of _John._ That was perhaps the worst part of it, the terrible loneliness of it. Sherlock had to grit his teeth against the steady ache in his chest, the part of his brain that longed to devolve to his baser instincts and scream and howl for his Mate.

He didn’t want to give this “Mycroft” any more leverage over him than he already had. A collarless prison still had steel bars.

Even more frustrating was the unwanted presence of the man in the suit. He came with annoying predictability, always at four, and always clean-pressed and with a vaguely disapproving air about him. Sherlock tried hiding from him at first, using his form to climb or curl into alcoves in the halls or to tuck himself into closets or under his bed. Yet Mycroft seemed to have an innate sense of his presence, and would invariably enter the room he’d sought his escape in. He brought with him tea, sometimes food if he thought it might be a day Sherlock would be inclined to eat. He offered information on John’s welfare like treats, and the Dragon found he had trouble resisting the offerings.

“He’s showing improvement from last night,” Mycroft stated at this particular meeting, seated in a comfortable leather chair. Across from him, Sherlock had made himself a sprawl, lying upon a plush sofa that someone had brought in specifically for this room. It was a makeshift library, clearly out of place in such a sterile building. Old shelves cast golden tones in the room, warming the normally frigid features that gazed up at Mycroft with contempt. “They had to do another operation on his shoulder, to get more of the shrapnel out. With any luck, he’ll wake up soon.”

Sherlock didn’t state aloud that he was at least vaguely aware of John’s level of health - his brain was, after all, still in part linked by the Bond. He could sense John’s consciousness, floating in a haze of sleep but just underneath the blackwater surface of dreams. Soon was correct; already John was beginning to feel the aches of the multiple surgeries, treatments and tubes he had been given for recovery. What had started out as a rocky beginning had only turned rougher, delaying Sherlock’s chance to see his Mate. It was inconvenient, and it was also entirely repugnant.

“He’d wake up sooner if you let me go to him,” Sherlock muttered, perhaps somewhat churlishly. Mycroft looked at him with an irritating stare, a cross between pity and minor amusement. Sherlock resisted the urge to take a swipe at his face, knowing his temper was making him tetchy. Violence would not make this not-quite-Dragon-not-quite-Man bend to his will, that much he understood.

“You will get to see him within a few more days; have some patience if you can. In the meantime, I thought we might discuss visiting hours for some of your other acquaintances.”

At this, Sherlock froze. He had been under the impression that the majority of the compound had been captured, imprisoned. The Dragon had compartmentalized the emotions that wanted to surge from within at the thought of what the **_Draski_** had done, what his own _kind_ had done to so many innocent lives, to his friends. Now he looked to Mycroft, a mask of indifference affecting his features, even as his insides whorled.

“Our squadron? The Fusiliers?”

“M.I.A, unfortunately,” Mycroft murmured, not unkindly. His grey eyes sharpened as he added on, “But four survivors were found at the compound, and were given the option to be honourably discharged to London, if they so desired. Three of the four elected to do so.”

At that moment, Sherlock’s sensitive ears could make out footsteps down the hallway. Several pairs of feet were making their way towards the room. The Dragon stiffened, nostrils flaring as he took in familiar scents a moment before the feet halted at the door. Sherlock was standing before he had even consciously realised he had done so, drifting towards the door but gaining drive the closer he came. He turned the knob to the door, revealing faces he knew on the other side.

A crushing embrace nearly tackled him, Molly’s arms flung around his shoulders without a care in the world.

 _“Sherlock,”_ she breathed in his ear, her voice a mixture of relief and joy. Sherlock instinctively returned the hug, surprised to find how comforting Molly’s scent was. It was a mixture of florals and warmth, and he inhaled it greedily, the first smell in this place that kept him grounded. He soon found himself tackled on his other side, another voice greeting him jovially.

“You’re look like hell, mate!” Mike remarked, pulling Sherlock from the hug to eye him critically. Sherlock noted vaguely that Mike looked cleaner than he had last seen him, and that he was wearing civilian clothes. The difference was jarring with the tan the man was sporting.

“We thought… well we worried,” Molly finished for him, her dark eyes brushing over Sherlock’s frame with concern. She seemed to cluck at the raggedness of his appearance, his lack of personal hygiene upsetting. Sherlock resisted the urge to chafe like a chastised Hatchling. His gaze flicked over Molly’s head, one more scent accompanied by a stranger’s smell.

Xavi smiled softly, his dark eyes crinkling at the edges. In his arms, he carried a bundle wrapped in what looked to be a fluffed, mint-green blanket. Sherlock couldn’t help but stare, it having been a long time since he’d seen a Hatchling so young. His mouth felt dry, and with gravity he murmured, “It would seem congratulations are in order. At least, I’m told that’s what most people do with this kind of news.”

Xavi laughed, the sound bright and bell-like. He gazed down at the bundle in his arms, his face aglow with a happy flush. His expression was awestruck, and perhaps just a little bit dazed.

“She hatched only a few days ago, I’ll admit I’m still adjusting to her presence. Would you like to meet my Nalini, Sherlock?” The way he said _my,_ Sherlock could hear Xavi’s love in his voice. The Dragon felt like it was an emotion inappropriate to wield in public, not with such ease and grace as his friend did. He was about to hesitantly agree, when Mycroft’s voice spoke from behind him. Sherlock resisted the urge to bristle like a startled cat.

“As touching as this scene is, I do believe it is my cue to take my leave. Sherlock, I’ll trust you will update your acquaintances with what you’ve been told.”

“Wait,” Sherlock growled, remembering what the man had implied only a moment before. “You said someone chose to stay behind.” Beside him, Molly sucked in a small breath. It was a pained sound, Sherlock’s face whipping to face her. His eyes narrowed in calculation. “Who?” he asked, suspicion already crawling along his spine. Mike answered for Molly, his voice heavy and tired.

“The **_Draski_** took Cerioth, Sherlock. We tried to convince Dodge to take a posting closer to home… She refused.”

The Dragon’s hands tightened at his sides, feeling the weight of mixed feelings creep over him. Dodge had never exactly been a friend, not like John or Molly or Mike or even Xavi. Yet Sherlock didn’t think she deserved the loneliness that could set into a person in Afghanistan, on a compound without someone to trust or depend on. He grit his teeth, momentarily cursing the stubbornness of Humans before Mycroft quietly took his leave.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, allowing the heavy set of his emotions to pass. He shook his head, dispelling the chaotic nature of his thoughts and accepted Nalini into his arms.

Human babies inevitably smelled of talcum and milk, the things that kept them thriving and happy. They smelled of their Human mothers and fathers, of vulnerability and helplessness. A Chinese Dragon Hatchling smelled of steam, the kind that they were submerged in by the child’s mother in order to nest with them for the first few months of their post-egg life. Nalini at a glance was no different, the dark curls that adorned her head still damp from a recent swim with Xavi. Unlike a Human child, her eyes were open and aware, and she looked up at Sherlock with irises that were wide and critical of his presence.

Tentatively, Sherlock offered her a smile that was crooked and unsure. Nalini seemed to sigh at his attempts, stuffing her tiny hand into her mouth to suck on. She blinked slowly, sleepily. Something in Sherlock’s chest loosened, the tension of the past few days leaving at the sight of something so relaxed and tiny in his arms.

“Sherlock… is… I mean, are you and John alright?” Molly spoke tentatively, breaking the silence after a moment. Sherlock looked at her slowly, seeing in her face worry. He wondered for a moment if he should be honest with her. It was clear that his friends did not know of the lengths Mycroft had gone to in order to ensure his imprisonment here.

Molly flushed at his stare, hastening to explain herself. “That government man that found us… he seems well, cold. You’re not being held here against your will, are you?”

“He’s the only one who has access to the care John needs,” Sherlock responded slowly, hoping it was enough of a non-answer to end Molly’s line of questioning. She bit her lip, dark eyes flicking to meet his own. Her expression crumpled in sympathy.

“Your eye… it’s, well. You and John must have gone through some awful trauma, to be stuck like…” She trailed off, seeming to see the slow confusion on Sherlock’s face. She paled. “You don’t know?” she asked, seeming stricken. Slowly, Sherlock shook his head.

“I haven’t had access to a mirror since I’ve come here.”

Xavi spoke then, his voice low as he reached to scoop his child from Sherlock’s suddenly lax arms.

“Your Bond, my friend,” he murmured. “It’s… you and John…” The Dragon seemed at a loss for words, and for a moment Sherlock felt a stab of panic at his friend’s expression. His eye itched, and he fought against the urge to scratch it. What could be so wrong that his friends were looking at him like that?

Molly reached for her bag at her hip, rifling through a soft pink purse until she found what she was looking for. A small compact mirror was held in her palm, open so Sherlock could peer into the glass. The Dragon took it from her, his mouth going dry as he saw his features for the first time since Afghanistan.

He was thinner than he had been for a long time, sallow from stress and exhaustion. Bruise-like marks were still healing along his neck and one cheekbone, purple staining his sun-freckled features. On one side, his normal eye stared back at him, the same near-colourless iris of pale blue, green and silver. Yet his other eye nearly made him drop the compact, because it was a startling difference. John’s colour looked back at him, deep cobalt blue, a shade Sherlock’s eyes had never leaned towards. Sherlock stared, seeing the small ring of hazel about the iris that was identical to his Mate’s. His jaw fell open as he looked, a chill running down his spine. The fear caused a lance-like spike of pain to echo across his temple, connection, memory flickering in his mind.

Desert.

Sand.

Shot.

_Painpainpain **Sherlock** there’ssomuchPAIN-_

The Dragon severed the memory with a sharp shake of his head, forcefully wrenching himself away from John’s subconscious. It was more effort than it should have been, and it left Sherlock feeling drained and strangely hollow.

This was not normal.

This was Magic gone terribly, terribly wrong.

 

****

 

The palace was quiet, nearly still as death in the wake of the Queen’s injuries. No one wanted to make much noise down the corridor where her rooms were, lest they wake her and by consequence make Rania feel compelled to get back on her feet.

She was always tired after using that particular spell, yet the fear of all the paperwork she’d have to do the moment she was better left her itching, wishing she could be free of the soft blankets and pillows she had found herself ensnared in. She huffed at the star-painted ceiling above her unseeingly, the dark waves of her hair fanned out across the pillow. Beside her, Ryuk slept on, as exhausted as she should have been yet wasn’t.

The sightlessness was always difficult to get used to, when she borrowed her Dragon’s vision. Being able to see was a power she could seldom wield, and it always made her feel frustratingly enough like she was lacking in some way afterwards. She knew it wasn’t true, and as the thought registered, Ryuk sleepily butted his head against her arm. Rania stroked the top of his crest, lost in memories of when the world had gone dark for her. Lost in a time when her palace had burned, and she had been forced to watch the death of her family before her sight was stolen from her. It was times like this that she knew she wasn’t a child, that she felt the hundred years that Ryuk had given her, and resented it.

Many people had forgotten the instability that had come to her land before the Dragon War. They reminisced of better times, unaware or forgetful of the blood feuds that so often broke out over the crown. It was so long ago, many had already passed and so knew no other life.

Rania had grown up in a household with five brothers and two sisters, the youngest in her family.

Half the time she had been told to be more wary of her siblings than any strangers. It was a fight for the crown, and she was the bottom of the totem pole in a world in which power could mean life or death. Her only advantage had been the fact that amazingly, impossibly, her father had favoured her above the others. Perhaps it was due to her face, so like her own mother, or perhaps it was merely the fact that the king had grown tired of scheming children. Rania hadn’t been a born strategist; it had never been in her nature.

Her father loved her for it, and her fondest memories had been spending time with him under a large fig tree. He had seemed even bigger than the tree itself back then, a man of power and yet, surprisingly gentle in mannerism. He’d pick figs for her, breaking them open to share, and he’d tell Rania of far off lands. Her favourite stories had always been about creatures that didn’t exist, Dragons greedy for gold and faeries that called to children in the dead of night. Her father had once laughingly called her mind ‘morbid’.

Those were happy times, but the reality of the situation was that life in the palace was far from ideal. By the age of ten, Rania had come close to being poisoned three times, two of the three almost certainly an attempt from one of her siblings. She had a bodyguard with her on most journeys into the city, and her father grew more and more exhausted each time he received news that one of his children had managed to off another. Neith had been the first to go, falling off her balcony in an accident too unfortunate to be anything but planned. Rania hadn’t much minded that one, she had been a bully and rather stupid.

She had cried herself to sleep when Nubia killed Uluwehi, and cried harder when later Nubia was found face-down in the river as revenge from one of her older brothers. Rania hadn’t been able to understand how faces that were so similar to her own had been so capable of violence.

“The only way to make this kind of bloodshed stop, is to become powerful,” her remaining sister; Akila, had once stopped her in the hall to tell her after seeing her red and puffy eyes. “You want the laws to change? Father won’t change them, he is too afraid of the uproar it would cause. You must have the heart to change them, my sister.”

Rania had merely looked at her sister, and known in that moment somehow with utter certainty that she had killed Neith.

Akila had killed two more brothers, before she herself died giving birth to her first child. It was a kinder death, in a way. The baby had been stillborn.

From that moment o, Rania resigned herself to fighting. She hardened herself against the pain of her siblings’ greed, hardened against the betrayal and sadness that would wash over her when she asked herself why her father let these things happen. Instead she began to learn to defend herself, practicing with a small knife with the city boys when she thought she could sneak away. She fought hard, and she worked hard, and she reached fifteen alive and well, only two brothers left as the rest had either died, disappeared, or had been murdered by other hands.

Manu and Ra were twins, born a minute apart with Ra being the eldest. They were as thick as thieves, and had formed an alliance as a result. Rania knew when she was left with them that she would have to be on guard whenever she could. The twins were clever, shrewd, and even worse, liars.

They might have done something sooner, if chaos had not broken out only a week after they began to set their sights on her death. An announcement had come from a nearby village, garish tales of a race of strange people coming out from the uninhabitable parts of the desert. The strangest, most fantastic part of the tale was the part where they had turned into demons.

Suddently, Rania’s life was a fairytale, and not the kind with a happy ending.

Her father, once kind and gentle, was forced to make several decisions that would eventually lead to his murder. The Dragons were a race of superbeings to most of the Egyptian public - stronger and faster and even more powerful than a king. Fear and suspicion made them the enemy, something that made their alliances precarious. Still, the Dragons hadn’t done anything as of yet to warrant a war. It was a difficult puzzle, as many people didn’t care. The Dragons had gold, and to a poor country forever locked in small schisms and inner turmoil, that promise was almost too good to be real.

Manu and Ra wanted war. They pushed their father again and again, urging him to allow soldiers to try and take the Dragons’ land. Rania remembered those arguments, the shouting and screaming that took place. She remembered when her father eventually cracked under that pressure, his powerful frame bent and broken under his sons’ constant attacks on his character, his position, his honour.

“Think of your people, father,” they’d reason. “It’s us, or it’s them, and it’s only a matter of time.”

Rania had grown up in a war, but she had never experienced a war such as what had ensued. The Dragons had been slaughtered, rendered useless with their own royal family, their tether to one another, so completely cut. Within two years, she found herself with her own Dragon slave, her family richer than it had ever had the right to be.

The Dragon had been a gift from her brothers, and she had looked at the small, shivering and blind creature before her, and knew it to be an insult.

She named him Ryuk, and she promised him that even if she couldn’t free him, she’d gain the power to one day be able to. Sightless eyes had looked up at her, milky yet somehow aware. The Dragon’s voice had been soft, but heavy with promise.

“There’s magic to become stronger, if you’re willing to pay the price for it.”

“What is the price?” she had asked, because Rania had never had any power, and had never wanted it until now. Ryuk had shifted then, into a wyrm-like creature, so different from the other Dragons she had seen. To some, he might have seemed ugly, bone-white with ice blue accents and eyes scarred and sightless. Rania looked at him, and instead found herself ensconced by the graceful whip of his tail. He spoke into her mind, showing her images of his capture, the death of his own family. They shared one another’s pain, and felt strength draw from it.

 ** _“The price is what the price has always been, princess.”_** he’d whispered gravely. **_“To gain the power of another is to take their power from them.”_**

Her father became ill.

She knew it to be one of Ra’s favourite poisons, the one he had used on Akila.

In the dark hours as she held her father’s hand and looked into his tired, fevered eyes, Rania gathered her resolve.

Pressing a kiss to her father’s forehead and clutching her small Dragon to her chest, she sheathed her dagger in the bodice of her dress. On silent feet, Rania slipped into the room where her brothers slept, sightless but her eyes wide open.

From then on she had power, and from then on, she stopped aging.

 

****

 

The slow drag of footsteps across desert sand was a harsh rhythm, set in the dead of night when the air was frigid and the sky held only the thin suggestion of a moon. The darkness was nearly total, save for a lantern held at the front. It glinted off of the chains that cuffed sweat-slick necks and wrists, made fear-wide eyes seem wild and prey-like.

Cerioth grit his teeth as beside him someone stumbled in the dark, pulling his chain with a sharp jerk to the right by consequence. He managed to stay upright, if only out of tightly controlled fear. The hissed breath through his teeth was like the release of chemicals from an aerosol can, the only noise beside a quiet moan of pain. Someone was pleading, begging for the shadow beside him to get up.

It was too late, the company had come to a halt. Cerioth’s sensitive ears could pick up the steady beat of a heart amongst a hundred other panicked gallops around him.

Irene Adler could make a presence, even in darkness. The lantern she held was blinding, and she lifted it as she approached from the front of the company to show the unimpressed look on her face. Her blue eyes were slit-like, narrowed in distaste as she cast the lantern over the fallen prisoner. Cerioth caught a glimpse of dark, shorn hair. He knew the soldier vaguely, Lieutenant Hawborne. Human.

His breath quietly began to quicken as he saw the way Irene looked at the fallen man. There was no mercy in her expression.

“Get up,” she ordered, her voice ringing clear in the silence that had fallen with her presence. No one dared to move, wide eyes darting to Hawborne, then away. Cerioth swore he could feel individual droplets of sweat beading down the back of his neck. The man simply groaned, his face flushed and weary - dehydrated. Irene stepped closer to him. Cerioth sucked in a breath as he saw her knee lift, the heel of her boot coming down hard against the man’s ribs. Hawborne shrieked as a snap sounded through the air, his face turning pale as a sheet. The Dragon felt sick as he watched the man beside him clutch his middle, writhing against the sand.

This wasn’t the reaction Irene evidently wanted. She growled, the noise subsonic and inhuman. One manicured hand grabbed Hawborne by the collar, lifting him into the air. With brutal efficiency, she forced him onto his feet, shaking him like a dog.

“I _said,_ Get. Up,” she snapped, red lips parting to reveal sharp teeth. Someone shouted something, a curse or a complaint. Her head snapped towards the noise, nostrils flaring dangerously. Cerioth clenched his teeth, having heard the words spoken.

“What did you say to me, _Human?_ ”

There was a pause, then the crowd parted to reveal a woman. Her hair was deep auburn, and her eyes were fierce as she glared silently at Irene. Her hands were clenched tightly at her sides. She spoke, and though her voice shook, she held her ground.

“I said, what did you expect? None of us have eaten in a day and a half. You’ve given priority to the Dragons for water.” Silver eyes glinted with hatred, and the soldier spat on the ground suddenly in fury. “If we all die in this damn desert, it’ll be on no one’s hands but your own!”

Irene seemed coldly amused by the woman’s speech. She looked at the other prisoners then, some Human and most not. Her voice held in it the deadly note of a promise as she slowly lifted Hawborne into the air, ignoring his muted cries. Her voice was clinical and detached. “You want food? You crave water?” Her smile widened, sharp and predatory. Cerioth braced himself, closing his eyes just as a sickening crunch and a scream assaulted his ears. He could hear the woman shout something, hear a lot of shouting. Over the shouting, he could hear the Dragon giving her orders. “You will march and you will not falter, or your next meal will come out of your _own_ company. Do I make myself clear?”

A shudder went through the prisoners. No one dared to argue. They were swiftly silenced as Irene threw Hawborne’s broken body to the ground, her hands instead gripping his chains. She broke them efficiently, leaving them in the growing pool of blood beneath him. He was twitching, wet noises leaving his lips. Cerioth found himself unwilling to look away, staring into the man’s eyes. It was that, or stare at the terrible gash ripping open his abdomen.

Hands covered in blood but otherwise immaculate, Irene seemed to take the deathly silence as agreement. Her voice held in it a note of smugness as she hummed to herself.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page. Come, we still have five miles to make before sunrise. If your partner can’t walk, carry them. If you can’t carry them, then they’re better off left for the animals.”

She turned then, and Cerioth caught in the cool glow of the lantern the sight of her back. There was a glint there, hidden just under the collar of her clothes. Normally it would have been hidden under a uniform, but Irene had shed hers as easily as she had shed her allegiances. The silver-pink glint of scar tissue made Cerioth uneasily feel the sweat on the back of his neck all the more.

He wondered if he was going to be made to trade his collar for a brand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some neat facts about queen Rania that might never make it into this story:
> 
> \- so I've mentioned that Egypt (in fact, most of Africa) and the east have an alliance, and have had one in this world for many years. This alliance was solidified in an act of marriage between Rania's father, and her mother (who died during Rania's birth). This is why all of Rania's siblings have Egyptian names, a token to her mother's heritage. It is also why Rania in terms of appearance (at least to my mind) is much darker than most of the natives of her kingdom. 
> 
> -Rania's the only one without an Egyptian name. This is because the queen died during her birth. Her father gave her a muslim-based name, due to his own faith. 
> 
> -Rania's father never recovered after his wife's death. He lost his spirit and much of his dependency as a ruler. He loved Rania, but he was not well-suited as a king and so the country in his care largely began to fall apart. He hesitated to name an heir because to name the youngest would be blatant favouritism, in the end it was his downfall. His indecision caused the death of most of his children, as well as his own. 
> 
> -(Because it will likely never make it into the story) Ryuk was blinded by the slavers that caught him and his family. They did it as an act of punishment, as he tried to escape. He was taken easily, as he was born the runt of twins (Rare for dragons) and his mother could only care for one. She chose the stronger egg of the two in a rare move of abandonment. For Dragon culture, to abandon one's child is looked upon as a crime as cruel as murder of a loved one.


	36. Fairy Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my beta, TPurr- my email got hacked a while ago and I lost your email. I'm sorry!!! I promise I'm not dead or ignoring you it's just because of that. 
> 
> To the rest of my readers, Uni has kicked my ass and given me little time to write. Forgive me. To make up for it, here's a chapter. 
> 
> Thank you as always for reading, and any spelling mistakes in this one are my fault.

 

 

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

_**Hatchlings (growth rate and milestones):** A young dragon comes into this world more independent than a typical Human child. At one month, their teeth begin to fully grow in, and they are fully mobile by a year old. They will also triple in size in this approximate time, and will likely develop mental speech if not verbal speech by a year and a half. The biggest milestone for a Dragon is its ability to fly. Despite rumours (see page 765 section D), a Dragon will not learn how to fly until it is the equivalent of ten Dragon years of age. This late flight time makes it easier for the Mother to keep track of her young, but it also means that the Hatchling is vulnerable until this time. _

 

John could feel deep inside of himself that something was wrong. It was a rotting tooth, a prickle down his spine. His limbs felt detached from him, as if he were a water balloon floating in a pool. Nothing was quite real, and nothing was present. 

He drifted in darkness, scrambling to find some kind of rope back to wakefulness. He wasn’t entirely certain what had happened to land him in this scrape, but somehow he knew with certainty that he wasn’t dead. There was pain, and pain to John didn’t make sense if he wasn’t still attached in some way to his body. There was also the voice, calling to him in the blackness like a distant siren.

_John. John, I need you to wake up. You need to wake up._

Sometimes, John thought it sounded like his mother. Other times, it sounded more like Sherlock. He kept trying to cling to its sound, whomever it was. Sometimes, John felt like his fingers almost found a hold. Other times, it slipped away from him, and eel slithering away back into dark water.

 

He wanted to wake up.

He _knew_ there had to be a way.

There was something he needed to come back to, but he was already forgetting what it was.

 

****

Sherlock was allowed to see John two days after he found out the bitter truth of his Magic. Since then, he’d spent most of his time curled in his bed, furiously thinking of a way to reverse what he and John had inadvertently done. The Dragon had been a study in sharp angles and ridged lines as he thought, his mind always drifting back to press against the thread that now hummed between him and his Mate.

_Mate._

John.

 

If he closed his eyes, Sherlock could sometimes sense the place his companion rested. It was the darkest parts of the mind, a tucked in corner of John’s brain that saved the man from the worst of his injuries and consequently his memories of what had happened. John had been steadily drifting closer, but had yet to actually break unconsciousness’ hold. Sherlock shivered with how much he could read of John’s thoughts, how intimately he could now fit himself inside the man’s body. It was a mental connection that felt all at once deeply right and deeply horrid. He was never one to keep boundaries in mind, but no should be able to read every waking moment their Mate experienced. It was a constant television channel playing in the back of his mind, and Sherlock worried that it would only get worse once John woke up.

 

Yet being in the room itself was a salve to the Dragon, who had been feeling John’s absence like a missing appendage. Upon entering he’d nearly felt crippled by the weight of relief, and wondered at once when he had developed such appalling sentimentality.

John looked fragile, tied up as he was in a hateful collection of tubes and beeping monitors. His pulse was being monitored in a lime green line on a screen, and despite the fact that Sherlock was aware of his Mate’s health, he took to staring at it for long moments. He found himself sitting in the available chair without being fully aware of such actions. There was no other option, it felt as though rocks were tied to his feet. He felt the strangest compulsion to take John’s hand, and was idiotically irritated that it was too swathed in gauze and wires to do so.

 

There was also the larger problem staring at him, more vivid than any scar. John was bare-chested, and though it was partially hidden by bandages they could not cover the full extent of Sherlock’s effect on the man. The Bond tattooed into John’s skin was a blue-grey stain along his shoulder, twisting its way down and across his chest. It was huge, and like a blister across it was the red warning sign of Joh’s bullet wound. The two fought for supremacy across John’s skin. Sherlock felt vaguely ill looking at it all, the tattoo pulsing sluggishly, blue-black magic mingling with red. It was ugly, and permanent, and so very much _not good._

_What have I done to him?_

He thought, and couldn’t stop the icy clench in his rib cage.

 

“He is due to wake up any time now, he’s been taken off the anaesthetic.” Mycroft’s voice drifted to him from the entrance to the hospital room. Sherlock made no outward sign of having heard him, but the words registered somewhere deep inside of him. His chest felt twisted in knots, and it was entirely unpleasant and strange. “You should know that recovery for him will be slow, and that he’ll likely slip in and out of things for a while. It’s not like films, he won’t wake all at once.” Sherlock listened to the slight tap of the man’s umbrella, his gaze locked onto John’s face. It was easier to deal with, in that moment. When he did not offer an immediate reply, Mycroft exhaled at length. “You would do with a few more meals, and some sleep. Remember, the two of you as it stands are connected now. Your health, is his.”

 

With those parting words the man left, leaving Sherlock alone to his thoughts. The Dragon felt a moment of irrational terror at the fact, one he reigned back. He shut his mismatched eyes tightly from the sight of John, retreating into his own head. There was nothing to do but wait, and having his thoughts cannibalise themselves would only lead to Sherlock’s own panic. Sherlock made a mental note to ask Mycroft for something to keep his mind busy. Something besides books. He loathed the ask the man anything, but given his captive state this seemed like a necessary request. He settled into his chair, tucking his trembling hands into his lap.

The night was going to be a long one, and he had no plans on sleeping.

 

****

Molly found it still startling, to wake to the noise of London traffic instead of an army compound. The rain was a patter she found foreign to her ears, the hush of clean sheets a novelty she hadn’t yet shaken off. The city was at once a strange mingling of freedoms and reintroduced restrictions, the likes of which she was still inevitably getting used to.

 

In Afghanistan, she had been a slave, but a soldier. That had meant that despite her status, she had been listened to. The desert stripped people of positions to an extent, or rather perhaps standing. The strangest thing about enlisting was that for the first time, she had been looked at and _seen._ She ate with Humans, slept with them, washed with them. There was no room for segregation in barracks, not when half the time you wondered if the person next to you would be killed.

 

In the city, her life was not in danger. She did not worry about the store having a bomb hidden in its depths, or whether or not she’d be shot on the tube. Yet the fear still occasionally prickled her spine, left her wary for threats where there were none. It was a clashing of instincts, and it left her often disoriented and detached to London.

She and Mike did not speak of it, but she knew he felt it too, sometimes. The first month was turning out to be a hard one, and neither of them quite knew what to do. For Mike, there was counselling, and there were treatment centres. Yet Dragons did not have much by the way of mental health professionals, and the ones that were available were not affordable on army pensions.

 

Besides which, Molly wasn’t so sure it was war memories that threw her off. She was instead thrown by the sensation of being subhuman once more. People did not look her in the eye at the store, and when she left the house she was expected to be collared. The fabric of it was softer than those in the army, but it still felt as though it were a noose, choking her. This she couldn’t bear to tell Mike, if only because it would have broken his heart. There was nothing the man could do, freedom useless when Molly had no education besides what she had been able to scrounge, and no real means of a livelihood. At one time, it wouldn’t have bothered her. She wondered what had changed, why her skin now felt too tight and her scales too chafing.

 

She had been trying to quiet that side of her in the only way she knew how: worrying about other people. Primarily there was the obvious- Sherlock and John. More quietly, she chose to fret over Xavi and Nalini, who had been given the flat beneath them. For the time being, Xavi’s documents stated that he, and his child subsequently, belonged to Mike.

 

Xavi was currently in the stage that newest mothers entered, the one that Molly privately called ‘roosting’. This meant that everything in the Dragon’s flat had been baby-proofed, and that Nalini could often be found nested in some kind of pile of blankets or pillows. Xavi himself couldn’t be more proud or relieved to be staying in London. He talked about the new things he was experiencing in the country ceaselessly, and was always willing to go somewhere new. It was novel to him, and Molly found it a welcome distraction to play host to the world she’d grown up in.

After waking from yet another unsettling dream that involved endless deserts, Molly chose to visit the pair. She knocked on the door despite it being unlocked, and then a moment later politely let herself in.

 

Xavi’s flat was painted a cheery butter-yellow, and though it was inevitably messy the way a home with a new baby tended to be, it wasn’t dirty. Molly toed her shoes off as Xavi alerted her that he was in the kitchen. She knew the moment Nalini picked up on her scent, due to the joyful shriek the baby emitted. Molly saw the Dragonling a moment later, smiling widely as she regarded the infant currently seated on the kitchen floor. She was frocked in a blue onesie that Xavi had likely found in a thrift store, her chubby fist crammed into her mouth. Nalini grinned up at Molly, her dragon-sharp teeth already growing in. Instead of crawling in her Human form, Molly watched as the baby transformed into a chubby, scaly Dragon. Nalini’s scales were silver and green, shades of cut stones. She stroked Nalini’s head, emitting the chirruping purrs that she knew as some instinct more than memory. Molly did her best to be content with the interaction, instead of bitter towards her own failed anatomy.

 

Xavi watched the interaction fondly, an apron tied about his middle. He was stirring a mixing bowl.

“She really likes you.” The Dragon commented. He set the bowl down, untying the apron to sling it over a single chair at the table. He gestured to the other one for Molly to take. “Tea?”

“No, thanks, and she likes everyone.” Molly deflected easily, scooping the Dragon up into her arms with ease. Nalini thought this great fun, rumbling pleased noises. She took the offered chair, letting Nalini curl into her lap like a serpentine puppy. Molly was warm, warmer than most Humans, and so provided an excellent spot to nap on.

“Yes,” Xavi answered with a smile “But she likes you _more_ than most others.” He sat down, groaning in relief at having a moment to rest his feet. He scratched at his dark head of curls, a moment later drumming his fingers against the table-top. “I was thinking about taking her on a walk, but it’s raining again,” His nose wrinkled in distaste.

“You’re going to have to get used to the rain.”

“You don’t.”

“ _I’m_ a fire Dragon. I’m allowed.” Molly laughed. Xavi grinned, unapologetic. He watched as Molly fiddled with the baby’s claws, playing with her snout and smiling when she snorted in laughter.

 

“Not that I’m not pleased you’re here, but is everything alright?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve just been having some trouble sleeping, lately.” She responded vaguely.

Xavi chuckled “I can relate. Having an infant around doesn’t improve matters much.”

“I can imagine.” Molly mused, her smile fading slightly into hesitation. Now that she was here, she was reluctant to ruin the warm atmosphere. Perhaps sensing the change in mood, Xavi’s expression turned a shade more serious. His dark eyes became concerned.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s… It’s the others.” Molly blurted after a moment’s hesitation. She rushed to finish, trying to explain. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, and it’s _fine_ if you can’t… but.” She looked earnestly up at Xavi, her expression apologetic. “I keep imagining horrible things happening to the soldiers captured, to my squadron. I don’t know what the **_Draski’s_** doing but it…” She trailed off, biting her lip. During her words Xavi had grown hunched like a raptor trying to escape notice. His face was a grimace, and his gaze had drifted to his hands. They sat tight in his lap, twin balls of anxiety. In Molly’s lap, Nalini gurgled, sensing the change in the atmosphere. A silence sat between them, thick and uncomfortable. Molly suddenly wished she had never spoken at all, and was about to open her mouth to apologise.

Instead, Xavi spoke first. His voice was rough, hoarse with dread as he finally looked up at her. There was a haunted line to his shoulders.

“You don’t want to know,” He murmured. “You don’t…It is. Difficult. To speak of.” Molly’s lip quivered, but her voice was firm as she replied.

“I can wait.”

Xavi inhaled, low and deep. He seemed to be lost to memories, but he spoke evenly enough. There was a distance too him as he stared, in the midst of his own thoughts.

“The goal of the **_Draski_** is to weed Human-lovers out. To convert those that survive. It’s… with your men, they’ll…There’ll be an initiation, for the Dragons.”

“What kind of initiation?”

“A fight.” Xavi answered promptly. His voice was hollow. “They’ll take master and Dragon, and they’ll tell the Dragon to... kill or the both of them will be t-tortured.” He gritted his teeth at the last word, his eyes falling shut. Molly reached out a hand to Xavi, scared and sorry that she had made the Dragon relive his pain.

“Xavi…”

“They’ll s-start to indoctrinate, tell the Dragons that they’re superior. That _we’re_ the dominant race. Eventually, beatings will start for those w-who don’t listen. It’s. They’ll have you swear allegiance to their leader.”

“Leader?”

“Only his closest know his true name.” Xavi explained tightly “But to those who are just followers, he’s called _The Spider._ There are rumours, but some think…” He trailed off, before continuing “Some think he’s the lost son of the Royal family. That he’ll unite us all, connect us like a hive, so we can overthrow humanity.”

 

Molly knew that story, the one that had been spread through bedtime stories, told to children through the bars of their cages to help them sleep.

“That’s a myth.” Molly whispered, but Xavi shook his head with sudden vehemence.

“It’s not,” He insisted “I don’t know if the leader _is_ him, but it’s not a lie.” He shrunk back into his seat, a study in dread. “The prince might have died a long time ago, but the story itself is not a lie. My father… before he passed… He knew the king. He met him once, back when there was peace.” Xavi looked to Nalini then, quietly hopeful. “If the prince _is_ out there… then I can only pray it is not the Dragon who runs the resistance. If it is…” His hands twisted in his lap, bundles of tight twigs. “Then we truly are doomed to destruction.”

 

****

“Once, Dragons lived in a time of peace, and prosperity.” Sherlock spoke the tale in the dark of night. It was a familiar tale, one that fell from his lips easily. He whispered it for John, the story weaving itself before his eyes.

“The three Dragon tribes lived and prospered in the world, connected together as a hive. Each tribe had a talent, a duty to help one another. The fire Dragons could fight, and were passionate and free. The Chinese could heal, and provided wisdom to those who sought them out.” Sherlock twiddled his hands together, his gaze falling to John’s mangled shoulder. “The Northern Dragons, could protect. Linking the tribes all together, the king of the North was able to touch the minds of all Dragons, and so in the process kept the balance of peace and harmony.” He wondered why he was doing this, but it soothed him in a way he couldn’t define.

“The king and queen at the top of the Great North Mountain, and soon gave birth to two sons. It was a time of celebration; every Dragon was glad that the line was secure.”

 

John’s heart monitor was a steady blip, and Sherlock willed it to keep on being steady. “One day, sentinels on the mountain found a trespasser. It was not a Dragon, in fact, it was something the Dragons had never interacted with before. A human man. The man was amazed with what he had stumbled onto, and claimed that he came peacefully. He had heard stories of our kind, and had come to learn. The king, kind but foolish, believed him.”

 

“The human left, but he was not gone for long. He came back, this time with an army bordering on the thousands. The claim was that the Dragons were hiding gold in their caves, gold that the Humans craved. The Human that the king had trusted lead the army, lead them through our passes and to the mountain. The city of the North began to burn.”

 

“Afraid and confused, many Dragons did not fight back at first. We were a peaceful race, and fighting was not our first instinct. Many were slaughtered by this inaction, and it was less of a war than it should have been. The king and queen in desperation had their eldest son take his brother, and run higher up into the mountain, to where not even Dragons dared to tread for its perilous, icy paths.”

A snowstorm. It had been snowing, the day Sherlock had been captured. He frowned as the image flickered past his eyelids.

“The older brother told the younger to hold his hand, but the path was too narrow. The young prince was too small to fly.”

_SHERLOCK!_

His head was throbbing; he didn’t know why. It was as steady as John’s pulse.

“The prince fell from the mountaintop, plunging deep into the icy darkness below. Though the elder brother searched, he couldn’t find him. The mountain was taken, and soon too were the other tribes. With no one to lead them, Dragon-kind crumbled. The two princes vanished, some believing the older brother to have jumped after his younger in his grief. To this day, Dragon-kind remains severed, deaf to each other’s minds and broken.”

 

It was a shit ending, really. Some Dragons claimed to their children that if they listened during a snowstorm, they might hear the cries of the princes. Utterly foolish, and entirely morbid. His head bowed, and he wondered to himself why the story never sat well with him, like an ice-pick in his chest.

“…S’tupid ending…”

“I agree.” Sherlock said, before the voice registered with him. His head snapped up, eyes wide as he took in John. The man was blinking sleepily at him, one eye its usual hazel. The other, was piercing blue.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, because little more seemed able to be said. John smiled at him, a dopey, hazy approximation of a grin that showed he was still drugged half out of his mind. Sherlock tried not to panic when John’s eyes slipped closed again, lost to the world of sleep. It would take time, as Mycroft said. Still, the Dragon’s heart stuttered in his chest, a drum.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start. He took John’s hand in his own, uncaring for once of the tubes and bandages that held it. 


	37. I Know You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!!! 
> 
> Boy, you guys are sure gonna like this one. ;) 
> 
> In all seriousness though, Merry Christmas. Though this chap is a little short, by the end of it I think you'll agree that it needed to end there. You won't be disappointed, I think. 
> 
> Happy holidays to all, and enjoy.

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Soulmate (Mythos):** _If **Bonds** are rare, then Soulmates are more so. Unlike the Human equivalent of the term, a Dragon's Soulmate can translate quite literally to "two sharing one mind". The Mythos of it is unclear, and I fear that only the oldest of the Dragons might have known the origin of the legend. A Soulmate is a term that can be romantic, but can also be friend-based, family-based. It is the person you most identify with, the person that you can finish sentences with, read each other's thoughts. It is thought to be ultimate sign of compatibility, an unbreakable link with which amazing feats have been accomplished. (See page 55 for details). _

_I know your name._

_You know who you are._

_Wake up._

_You have to wake up._

_W a k e . . ._

John opened his eyes, the dregs of a dream lingering at the back of his teeth. They left them feeling furry, and he licked his lips as he stared at the familiar white ceiling of his hospital room. It was becoming a sight that he was accustomed to, followed swiftly by the head of curling hair that would habitually block the light from his vision.

 

Sherlock seemed to know with an innate sixth sense when John was going to awaken. If he wasn’t already alert to his waking, then the Dragon himself was passed out cold. John found this as he turned his head, a soft expression melting over his features as he looked at the Dragon. Sherlock lay curled in what had to be an uncomfortable position in the plastic chair he’d taken to roosting like a gargoyle in. His knees were tucked to his chin, his wings wrapped about him in a makeshift shelter. His eyes were closed, the lines at the corner of his mouth smoothed so that he looked younger than usual. Sherlock’s dark lashes fluttered, his eyes roving behind their lids with dreams.

 

If John concentrated, he found that there was a disconcerting lurch in the back of his mind. Images that he knew did not come from his own mind drifted before his eyes, pictures and vague ideas of places he had never seen.

He was almost sure that what he was seeing, was Sherlock’s dreams.

 

He didn’t know what it meant, but then again, John was fairly sure he had missed a lot while out cold. When Sherlock had been awake, the Dragon had been cagey with answers, annoyingly so. John knew that they were relatively safe, that they were back in London somehow, and that distressingly, he was being honourably discharged. The last part he didn’t need Sherlock to tell him, he knew it just by looking at the state of his shoulder.

 

As if drawn to look by the thought, John tilted his chin down to grimace at the state of his body. It was not a pretty sight, and despite Sherlock’s insistence in keeping him in the dark, John was not stupid. The swathe of bandages that covered his shoulder tightly hid most of the damage, but it couldn’t hide how the tattoo had encroached across his skin. John could feel it, almost like a pulsing thing beneath his skin. The sense of it was wild, something primal that made the hair on the back of John’s neck stand on end. He wasn’t quite sure if he could trust this sense, though it felt old and natural at once. His mind itched to touch it, but John feared that to do so would mean to drown within the power.

 

As for _how_ the Bond even got to this state, John had little memory. The incident of his shooting was hazy, to the point where he’d had to ask if Hajera had even lived through the onslaught. What John could remember was mostly pain, and dreams that felt more like visions. He didn’t know what it meant, and from Sherlock John had only managed to pry out slivers of information. The Dragon had seemed to be carrying well-concealed guilt, and John didn’t understand but he was bloody determined that once he was out of his blasted bed, he’d find out why. He didn’t like being coddled, it set his teeth on edge.

He told himself that was why he forced himself to stare at his injuries, access them even as it made his heart sink. There was no use shying away from his analysis, even as it grew grimmer the longer he looked. Nerve damage, was the initial assessment. Likely, there would also be a serious amount of physio to look forward to. The thought entered his brain that he’d likely never be able to shoot to the same level of steadiness. He bit back the hot, metallic flavour that rose up in the back of his throat. John breathed deliberately through his nose, staring back up at the ceiling.

 

Reluctantly, he forced himself to admit that he had been very lucky, all considered. The bullet had been perilously close to his lungs and heart, and had missed any major arteries. Though the digging out of the bullet seemed to have been ugly, John could feel already the beginning stiffness of healing flesh. Most importantly, he was _alive._ He was alive, and safe, and one of the few in the entire encampment to be so.

He told himself that to be so was a blessing. Staring up at the ceiling, he sank his teeth into his lower lip, and willed himself to believe.

 

****

The rain beat out a steady rhythm against the windowpane, drowning out the bustle of noise outside of Gregory Lestrade’s office. The drumming was soothing, leaving the man feeling sleepy despite it being early afternoon. He twiddled with the end of his pen, staring once again at the reports given to him with feigned concentration.

In truth, his mind was less on the recent bout of riots in the district, and more on the encroaching bitterness sitting in the back of his mind.

 

She had left again, seemingly with the idea that he wouldn’t notice. Yet despite how well Greg slept, a part of him always felt the slow creep of the bed springs as she tip-toed out of their shared room. He wasn’t sure why he lay there, silently listening to his wife’s actions, but he’d made a habit of doing so. Her motions were often the same- she’d brush out her hair, put on a dress, grab her shoes and make her way bare-footed across the polished floor. What should have been a soundless execution somehow always felt so loud to him.

He wondered not for the first time if he should say something. Yet despite his occupation, Lestrade was surprisingly good at pretending that something wasn’t happening, even when he noticed.

He was a detective inspector, after all. It was his job.

 

Regardless, he had gone into the Yard today feeling pretty low. He kept a professional air, but the truth was all Lestrade wanted to do was go home, sit on his beaten up couch like a gremlin in the dark and make some soup.

 

This meant that he wasn’t entirely feeling charitable when a woman in a suit arrived at his office door with clearance he wasn’t even entirely certain he was supposed to _know_ about.

“Mr Lestrade? I’m going to need any cases you’ve had in the last month.”

“Under whose orders?”

The woman smiled, her expression deliberately a mask of neutrality. Without a word she reached for a lanyard in her pocket, placing the piece of identification down for Lestrade to see. He leaned forward, his mouth falling open as he read the jurisdiction.

“What the hell does MI5 want with my cases?” He muttered in disbelief.

“I do believe that information is above your paygrade.” The woman murmured crisply. She lifted a phone to her face, seemingly content to ignore him until he did as he was told. Being expected to scuttle off like a barnacle made Lestrade’s hackles rise. It was blatant enough what she thought of him that he half debated calling for security, even if the woman wouldn’t likely get escorted. As if sensing his thoughts, she paused to pin him with a cutting gaze.

“Today would be nice, Mr Lestrade.”

Rude.

 

He shoved his papers towards her, backpedalling from his desk to get the rest of the files. He intended to get to the bottom of this peculiar occasion, but for now he had no choice to comply.

 

****

Three days passed since John’s waking, and Sherlock was already reluctantly elbows-deep in the files Mycroft had given him. He was loathe to admit it, but the man seemed to know just what interested the Dragon, despite his animosity. Puzzles were given to him in the form of unsolved mysteries, whether true or untrue, Sherlock couldn’t say. He didn’t have access here to the news, and even if he did, he wasn’t sure the files given to him would be put on national television. The vast majority presented were curious, strange, or simply, chaotic.

He wasn’t sure if he was meant to be eating through them with the speed that he was, but it kept his host happy and more importantly, John.

 

Sherlock could feel his Mate’s concern, despite the fact that he was working on trying to block out the tide of emotion and thought that was becoming the dangerous norm for the two of them. It was built on the fact that Sherlock could admit that he was, in fact, going mad with forced inactivity. There was only so much physical activity one could do, before white walls drove one to do something drastic. Sherlock had grown so used to confinement, that his taste of relative freedom during wartime had made it unacceptable. His mind played tricks on him, made the walls feel as if they were pressing against his skin. So to fight the inexplicable urge within him to scream, he demanded that Mycroft give him something to occupy his mind.

 

This puzzle, serial suicides, had proven so far to keep him for more than just a few hours. The mysteries were getting harder, and Sherlock had the suspicion that his solving time was being monitored. Competitive to a fault, he bent over the file, his brain flickering through possibilities like the shutter of a lens. Victims all Human, indiscriminate in age, gender, sexuality and social standing. They were only connected by a poison, and a lack of note that made the mystery tantalizingly elusive. Sherlock only wished there was more to go on, more to _see,_ but if this was an imagined puzzle, than he was in theory given all he needed to know to solve it.

“What’s got smoke coming out of your ears, then?”

John’s voice broke the Dragon from his thoughts, as it was prone to do. Sherlock looked up from his usual curl in the hard plastic chair. John looked at him, seeming tired but interested. It was not often these days that John _didn’t_ look tired- physiotherapy was excruciatingly slow, and mandatory bed rest was dull.

“A puzzle,” Sherlock offered, willing to offer an olive branch of interest. He at least was mobile; he couldn’t imagine being almost entirely trapped in one room for hours at a time. “Serial suicides. Nothing linking them so far except the same poison taken.”

“How can suicides be serial?” John asked, his brow crunching in confusion.

“They can’t,” Sherlock murmured, though he wasn’t sure if it was to himself or to John. “Which is why I’m trying to prove that it’s murder.”

This got a grin out of John, his mismatched blue eyes amused.

“You look far too pleased to be proving that.”

 

The Dragon shrugged, though he too was now fighting a smile. It was true that against all odds he was enjoying himself. It was a guilty sort of pleasure, something that felt illicit. There was a certain rush that Sherlock found himself getting at the end of each case, if only because he would rush through the explanation to John and earn praise. He would never admit aloud, not even to himself, how much John’s compliments sent a curl of happiness down his spine.

 

John, obviously now wanting to do something himself, darted his chin towards his bag of belongings.

“Wish I had something to read. My book got stolen, thanks to fucking Bill.” He sighed to himself. “It was a buggering helpful read, at least. Fucking shame.”

 

That was the other puzzle piece, one Sherlock had theories on but had not offered comment upon. There were not many people on this planet named _Mycroft Holmes._ He had yet to tell John the name of their host, and the man himself had yet to appear when John was awake, slippery like an eel. It irked Sherlock, how many coincidences seemed to appear around his and John’s gathering, in Mycroft collecting them. There was something he was not seeing, and he had the impending sense of dread of a blind man walking across train tracks.

“There are plenty of books in the library.” Sherlock offered, but John merely shook his head. He sunk his towed head further into his pillows, staring up at the plain white ceiling in defeat.

“No, I’m just… I’m whinging. I guess. Ignore me, yeah? It’s just… I bloody wish I could go somewhere.”

 

It was not the first time this complaint had been raised, and Sherlock sympathised. He exhaled from his chest silently, considering. The silence that stretched between them was companionable, but it was heavy with words left unsaid. Neither of them wanted to touch it, lest it burst at the seams. Yet there was a heaviness to it, filled with possibility. Sherlock was acutely aware of his wings, shifting colours with his thoughts. They were the softest grey, nearly a pink that could only be seen at the edge of a sunset.

 

John was the one who ended the quiet first. His voice was hushed, treading as it was upon sacred ground.

“I… I thought I heard you. When I got shot.” Staring as he was at the ceiling, he frowned to himself. “In my head. You shouted for me, but it. It wasn’t like usual. It was like… Like-“

“Like I was a part of you.” Sherlock finished the sentence, hearing it already in his head. John’s silence was answer enough; the Dragon could feel the man’s eyes boring a hole in him. He stared at the long shape of his wrists, at the delicate join to his hands. He had a tan now, miraculously. It wasn’t as dark as John’s, but it was definitely darker than he had been when he’d been adopted.

“I’ve… I’ve been hearing your thoughts, sometimes.” John whispered, as if he thought the very mention of the insane might be dismissed. With Sherlock’s silence, he seemed emboldened to continue, the words leaving him in a rush. “Not all the time, but… It’s like, I listen and I can find you. I see thoughts that aren’t mine, images…Tell me I’m wrong.  Tell me it’s PTSD, or…or…” John broke off then, swallowing hard.

 

Sherlock was peering up at him through his lashes, something unreadable in the green eclipse of his gaze. His scales were shifting, unnameable shades between pink and teal, and a colour that John thought he couldn’t quite define. Quietly, the Dragon replied.

“It’s not PTSD.” John exhaled hard, once through his nose.

“What is it, then? What’s happened that I feel like this?” He bluntly asked, looking at Sherlock so earnestly that the Dragon felt as if he was being kicked in the solar plexus. It was a tug that spurred him to wonder if he was going into cardiac arrest. Surely, this was how it felt to risk your life. Nothing like being shot at, but somehow it felt just as dangerous. Sherlock rose to his feet, putting aside the now-forgotten files, approaching the bed slowly. He felt rather than saw how John’s gaze flicked to his eyes, seeing their mismatched irises. The man was already sitting up, but his breath quickened a beat as Sherlock reached out a hand to his wrist. Counting the beats fluttering under the vulnerable curve of his wrist, Sherlock finally willed himself to look at John’s face directly.

 

They met eyes, reflections of each other, twin puzzle pieces. Sherlock could see John’s pulse, fluttering in his throat.

“You nearly died,” Sherlock croaked. Though he didn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, it came out harsh like nails and brittle like glass. “You nearly _died,_ and I couldn’t do a _damn thing_ about it.”

“I’m sorry.” John said, and Sherlock knew that he meant it. It wasn’t enough, and yet it was like a balm to the jagged hole that had nearly been ripped out of him at the thought of John’s passing. The Dragon made a small, helpless noise at the back of his throat. Sherlock couldn’t tear his gaze away from John’s face as he cupped his cheek with one hand.

 

Like a gentle meeting in the middle, Sherlock’s head ducked an inch, while John’s raised in tandem. Their lips met, and in the barest breath that they separated Sherlock confessed.

“I’ve done the worst thing I could do.”

“What’s that?” John’s eyes were dark, looking at him as if he were the only thing in the world that mattered. As if Sherlock was the only _concept_ in his head at the moment. Sherlock nearly laughed, the corner of his eyes crinkling.

“Loved you.”

 

And like a drowning man, found his breath as he pressed his lips again to John’s. For his part, John didn’t seem to mind. His blunt, familiar hands traced along Sherlock’s braced arm as they kissed, gentle and soothing and _right._ When they parted, he dazedly looked up, at Sherlock’s wings. They were a canopy, brilliant magenta and orange and blue in a whorl that was mesmerizing. John never wanted them to change colour again.

“We did the worst thing together, then.”

Sherlock, unable to hide his smile any more, laughed. It was a laugh of many things, at relief at being alive, mourning for the things to come, joy at being able to have _this,_ no matter how short it might be. Petrified, at even the suggestion of that last thought.

Together, like playing in an endless feedback loop, was the predominant chant they shared as they pressed their foreheads together and closed their eyes against the world.

_I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here, and we’re together, and we’re safe._


	38. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy everyone!
> 
> So it's been a while, between Sherlock's finale and school kicking my ass, I've finally found some time to give all of you the next chapter. I hope you enjoy. If you're curious about the language that's not Dragon-Tongue used in this chapter, it's very loosely based in Irish Gaelic. ^_^ More info on the meanings at the bottom of the page. 
> 
> As always, a great many thanks to my lovely beta, TPurr. *finger guns* you rock~  
> No memoir for this chapter, as you will soon find out why with a read. >:)

 

 

“The book tells us nothing we don’t already know.”

Bill Murray’s voice dripped and stretched in the darkness, a guttural hiss that Cerioth could just make out through the pipes. He struggled to wake, tilting his head back woozily to peer up above. Through the slats of the floor, he could make out the shadow of Murray’s boot above. Leaning back made the blood in his nose threaten to pool at the back of his throat. The Dragon spat what he could on the stone floor. The voice he heard was one he didn’t know well, Rin hadn’t spoken much to him during their training together. It was an airy voice, soft enough that Cerioth struggled to hear it. Somewhere, someone was screaming. He clenched his teeth and focused through the pounding in his head.

“It doesn’t tell us more about the Heartsong?” Bill growled, the sound something inhuman. The sudden sharp _bang_ that sounded made Cerioth jump. His chains clinked in response.

“Nothing. Not a single fecking fact that I couldn’t find in some fairy tale book.” Something else crashed. Dust fell from the floorboards and stung Cerioth’s eyes. He squinted into the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse at what had Murray so riled.

 

Rin’s voice was ice-calm.

“We burn it then, if it doesn’t have anything. Count our losses and move forward, make sure no one else gets their hands on this kind of information.” There was a prolonged, tense silence. Cerioth almost gave up hope for anything else, until Bill’s voice uttered harsh agreement.

“Torch it. We start questioning the Human captives.”

There was the sound of crackling parchment, the faint smell of smoke. Cerioth felt sour helplessness lodge itself in his gut as the footsteps receded beyond his hearing.

 

No book could help anyone now.

 

****

John’s head was swimming, and it wasn’t just because he found as of late that he was occupying more than just his own thoughts. Though Sherlock’s presence in his mind was distracting, he was finding that in time the noise was getting easier to control. Like a radio channel, when he concentrated he could usually tune himself in and out, and it made the headache he’d been suffering from for some while now ease.

Sherlock had done his best to explain their situation.

 

“In times of great stress, a Bond can become… more. It can mutate, since Magic is tied into strong emotions. To put it simply, we were both in dangerous situations, and we both reached too far and managed to touch the other’s Magical presence, instead of just entwining them together.” To demonstrate, Sherlock lifted his hand to pluck at something from mid-air. John watched, confused as a shimmering thread materialized between Sherlock’s fingers. The thread was dark blue, and as Sherlock tugged, John felt a tug in his chest in response. “It links us,” Sherlock murmured “With this thread between us, we’ve become essentially one entity, sharing two bodies. But you need to understand the danger of it. The pain you feel, the pain I feel, it will affect both of us. Your body cannot take what mine can.”

 

It had been poetic, then. Now, John was more concerned with the consequences of such a tie between them. He had no regrets, couldn’t, but he worried about their future. Dragons and Humans couldn’t share a public relationship; Dragons weren’t seen as _people._ Until very recently, _John_ had still struggled with the concept. The war had changed him, but it had made him misplaced in this society. London with its shining buildings, bustling people and clean laws, wouldn’t look upon them kindly.

He wondered if Mrs Hudson would even let them rent from her, now. She loved Sherlock, but to house them was to invite trouble. John had heard some of the nastier names for people like him, how they were perceived. The thought of putting her, of putting _Sherlock_ through that made him clench his teeth and have to breathe carefully through his nose to still his rage.

 

He tried not to dwell on it, while he was in the hospital. Instead, John turned his attention instead to their host. He was curious as to what their anonymous benefactor wanted from them, and when he would come to collect.

It was clear that Sherlock didn’t trust him, and considering the Dragon had good instincts, John was tempted to err on the side of caution.

 

In the end he came (perhaps by design) on a day when Sherlock was absorbed in the odds and ends of his case, and so scouring the library for resources. John could tell from a brief mental check that the Dragon would be occupied for a while. Though he still struggled a bit with reading the more complicated texts, Sherlock was rapidly becoming as proficient as John was with most text.

The knock on the door, followed by the man that entered, quickly took his mind off of Sherlock’s antics.

 

John took in the stranger before him. He was a tall man, dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit that looked as if it cost more than all of John’s army pension. The most notable aspects of his nondescript features and accessories was the bleak ridge of his nose and the umbrella at his side. His voice was the polished notes of the upper-class.

“John Watson,” he addressed John crisply, “You’re looking better than the last time I checked on you.”

“I take it you’re our mysterious ‘Mary Poppins’?” John responded, remembering the codename Rania had given the man. The man smiled, inclining his head in acknowledgement. His fingers curled and uncurled about the handle of his umbrella.

“At your service. Here though, I do have an actual name. I’ve been informed reliably you may have heard of it, before.”

“Oh?” John asked. He was fairly certain that he hadn’t. Still, it was clear the man was leading him into something, and for now he was willing to play.

“I distracted Sherlock with library books, so that I might chat with you.”

Instead of answering his question, the man came forward, taking the hard plastic chair that Sherlock so often occupied. His gaze was keen as he regarded John.

“A dragon is a legendary creature, typically with serpentine or reptilian traits that features in many different cultures. Since the dawn of time, Dragons have been the subject of both legend and speculation, deriving from many different traditions and originally thought to have been of mythical descent. However, with modern science, the "Dragon Gene" has been proven to be a mutation of the genetic strand of a Human, allowing the subject to "Shift" into a beast-like state at will.”

The sentence struck John as eerily familiar, something he had read. Seeing the confusion on his face, the man seemed to sigh to himself. “Perhaps this will jog your memory, then.” he murmured. “My name’s Mycroft Holmes. You’ve had my book for a long, long time.”

 

The name hit John like a wall. He leaned back into his pillows, the air abruptly knocked out of him. Out of all the explanations he had tried to anticipate, few things could prepare him for such a reveal. His mind was quick to piece together the implications.

“Then… Then that means- “

“That I’m Mycroft Holmes? That I’m a Dragon? Yes.”

“You’re-” John swallowed against his words then, because he nearly uttered his unfiltered thoughts aloud: _You’re alive?_

Still, it was clear that Mycroft anticipated the question. His pale eyes flicked away from John’s face, peering distantly towards the window across the room. His expression was carefully blank, but there was something old in his posture. Old, and melancholy.

“There is much I did not get to write about, in that first tome. It became too dangerous to do so, and later I wished to forget what I knew. I went into hiding, gave up my true form for safety.”

“You’re _here.”_ John said, because it bore statement. Mycroft fixed him with a rather flat glare.

“Yes, I’m certainly not some hallucination, if that’s what you mean.”

 

John shut his mouth then, before he could say something else daft. He considered a moment how he wanted to word his next question.

“Why did you send your tome… to me?”

“I didn’t,” Mycroft scowled “Three days before you would receive that package, I would find the tome missing from my personal collection. I haven’t the faintest idea who sent it to you, or how they could know you’d need it. It’s quite irritating, actually.” He said the last part almost to himself, seeming vexed. “I dislike not knowing things.” John could tell he was telling the truth, somehow. There was something about the man’s face that, despite his coolness, he found he could see through.

 

“That’s why you saved us then. Because you thought we might have your book.” John came to the conclusion aloud. He’d hate to be the one to disappoint the man and admit that it had been stolen.

Mycroft’s gaze flickered with something unreadable, but his answer was smooth.

“My PA’s informed me that the book has found its way into other hands. You’re off the hook for it, Mr. Watson. I want nothing from you.” That was a relief. John wasn’t so sure that money could match the price of that book.

Still he was curious. For a long time now, John had wondered who could have written such a book, an instruction manual for Dragons unlike any other he had ever seen. He had lain awake at night trying to imagine the Dragon that had written it. For some reason, he’d always conjured up some wizened old man, possibly with a flowing beard. The man before him though very sharply dressed, somehow fell flat. John also wasn’t sure _why_ Mycroft had still chosen to help them, even when it turned out they didn’t have his book. He also wanted to know how a Dragon seemed to be pulling all of the strings behind what was turning out to look like a major-scale operation.

“I don’t understand,” John said, because it was about as simple a summary of his thoughts as he could get. Mycroft sighed, seeming to silently weigh invisible figures before him. Whatever the result, he straightened to stare up at the ceiling for what seemed like an eternity before speaking again.

 

“I don’t trust you, John Watson,” was what came out of the man’s mouth. John blinked, he hardly knew this man? He didn’t entirely trust him either. “But the fact of the matter is, Sherlock does. I’m reaching a wall with him, and I fear that we’re running out of time to get past it.”

 

It was to do with Sherlock, then. John somehow wasn’t entirely surprised. There was a prickling sensation along the back of his neck, tingling its way up and through his bad shoulder. He winced against the sensation.

“What do you want me to do?” He asked, because it was clear that Mycroft wanted something. The Dragon shifted to look at John, his pale eyes calculating.

“I want you to listen, as you have been doing from the start. I want you to understand that I’ve never lied with what I’ve written in that tome, and I’m not lying now. Whether you believe me or not, is ultimately your choice.” That was true. John had trusted the book, and it had never failed him. Following its instructions had never hurt him before.

“What do you want to tell me?” John asked, meeting Mycroft’s gaze. The Dragon smiled, and something in his eyes began to glow a soft, blue light. The glow began to pulsate from the man, trailing like water in pooling form until it filled the room. John gasped, the sudden onslaught of Magic causing him to jerk upwards in his bed, to hell with his shoulder. He stared in awe as the white-blue glow began to fill the room, spreading a reflective sheen.

“I don’t want to _tell,_ ” Mycroft spoke, and his voice was an east wind rolling from a mountain. “I wish to show. This, is my specialty, an ability I alone have made. I call it a Memory Well. It contains my experiences, what I’ve lost. It will tell you why you’re here. If you trust me, John, touch the light. Sherlock won’t see what you see, not with my Magic.”

 

John stared for a moment longer at his own reflection peering back at him. His mismatched eyes seem to ask him what he was waiting for. The light was reaching the edge of his bed, rippling in invitation. John didn’t need to be asked twice, he reached out in spite of himself, unable to tear his gaze away. This was what had caught his eye about Dragons in the first place, a primal call towards their power.

 

His hand touched the water, but it didn’t go through. Instead, John felt as if he were touching glass. His vision faded, washed out with white. He’d never been very good at heeding anyone’s warnings not to dive in head-first.

 

****

The egg was pale blue, armored like all of his kind’s eggs. It faded into teal and gold at the tip. It was a massive, pinecone shaped monstrosity that was nearly as large as he was. Mycroft reached out to touch the shell, and felt warmth from deep inside. Under the pads of his fingers, the faintest flutter of a pulse hummed. His little brother shifted in his sleep, causing the shell to twitch. Mycroft suppressed a small smile of utter delight.

 

To his right, a massive blue eye flicked open. In the shadows his mother rested, dark blue scales blocking out the sunlight to the rookery. Her wings were massive, twin sails tucked against her spine. As she stretched from her sleep, her tail lifted to touch its tip to Mycroft’s side, an affectionate nudge.

“What are you doing up so late, **_Athr_** ** _ù_** ** _duinne?_** _”_ The word was not a typical nickname for Hatchlings, nor was it true Dragon-Tongue. It was an old language, the language of royalty. It was not entirely a nickname, but a title. It was one Mycroft knew and loved, something he shared with his family: _Shiftling_. His mother’s voice rumbled through the rookery, and with it other mothers stirred. The shadows became a writhing mass of comfort and all Mycroft had ever known. Huge claws turned eggs like positioning plants towards the sun, tails curled more firmly about their sleeping Hatchlings. He answered his mother truthfully, caressing her tail.

“Couldn’t sleep. Was talking to Sherlock.”

His mother hummed, her voice soft and amused. She lead Mycroft back to her side with her tail, until he and his brother were tucked safely by the warmth of her stomach.

“Go to sleep, my love. Your brother will hatch soon enough.”

Mycroft settled, but he couldn’t bring himself to sleep. He settled instead for curling up next to the egg, petting its hard exterior in the dark. He could hardly wait for sunrise.

 

****

Though his power was not unheard of, many viewed Mycroft as odd. This was because of his Magic, his abilities. From a young age, he was good at most types of Magic, but in particular he held an affinity for Shape-changing. Every Dragon felt more comfortable in their skin, but Mycroft found he had many skins he loved for different reasons. It was a rare gift, one that in theory should have been celebrated for a young prince to have. In truth, it made it hard to have friends in the rookery. Hatchlings didn’t like waking up to a naked, pink, two-legged thing wandering about. They liked it less when Mycroft shifted into other things, brought forth from his own imagination. Things with fur, and too many limbs and too many wings. Some were colourful and beautiful. Others, slithering and deadly.

 

He was quickly told that though his power was a gift, he was not to use it around those easily frightened. His father, deep voice shaking the throne room even in its softness, was firm.

“You are a prince to the nation, my child,” he explained “And so you must protect others, instead of teaching them to fear you.” He’d added as an afterthought, seeing his son shivering “Also, you might want to consider putting on clothes, if you take the form of a man. The mountains grow cold at night.”

Mycroft did his best, but in truth he thought it a relief when he learned that another child could soon have a chance to hold the throne. He’d never been great with people (and wandering around without clothing was strangely freeing to a nine-year-old).

 

His younger brother seemed to love all of Mycroft’s forms unconditionally, nulling his secret fears. He was loved by both his mother and father, but he worried about the new Hatchling that came to his life one snowstorm-driven day.

Sherlock from the start seemed to be born into the world purely as a testament against that fear. From the moment he was born into the world, he didn’t seem capable of the emotion. He hatched screaming into the world, and refused to shut up from day one.

 

Mycroft loved him desperately. Sherlock responded to the love like a flower facing the sun. The two could often be found chasing each other down the bustling halls of the castle, weaving in and out of the rookery like foxes and hares. They’d duck and dodge their way between massive arms, lashing tails and disgruntled new mothers dealing with Hatchlings that were keeping them up at night. As they did, the older Dragons would murmur to one another in loving exasperation. The mountain was their domain, and Mycroft and Sherlock both grew up amidst stone caverns, glittering caves, and family.

 

Play was mingled with learning, Mycroft’s afternoons were dedicated in particular to history and writing. His instructor, an elderly Dragon named Eilonwy, fed his interest in life outside the mountain.

“The three tribes talk to one another throughout the year, but we gather when the red star shows in the sky at night for a celebration, The Star Ball. At this celebration, it’s your duty to welcome the other daughters and sons of the chieftains.”

This wasn’t something Mycroft hadn’t heard before. He just wasn’t sure how confident he felt about it. There were three children he was going to meet at the ball, and they weren’t all younger than him. The nerves of it made knots in his stomach, even if one of them was close enough to his age.

 

Sherlock by contrast, had been tasked with a performance. The mountain seemed to fall to a hush when his violin sang out, Sherlock using human hands and fingers to pluck forth a sound that seemed to shimmer when heard. Even as a child, it was clear what Sherlock’s specialty of Magic was- Music. The first time Mycroft heard his brother play, he’d stopped his worried pacing and found an unusual calmness settle over his shoulders. It had lasted with him the night. He’d known from the start that he’d not be the one to take the throne when his parents passed, but this confirmed it. Only a Dragon that could sing the Heartsong could lead, and Mycroft had never had much talent for music.

 

****

“Clothing’s itchy, why do I have to wear it?” Sherlock’s nose was scrunched, his human form all wild curls and blue eyes too large for his face as he scowled up at their mother. She was fastening a plush blue cloak about his neck, the silver clasp glimmering invitingly. It bore the crest of the Northern Dragons, a mountain peak encircled by the Dragon-God Hjolner.

“Hush now, love. Try to behave tonight, just for me?” Mycroft watched as his mother put the finishing touch on his younger brother, a silver circlet that donned his curls like entwined branches. They were woven in protective symbols, blessing and shielding Sherlock from harm at once. The centre jewel matched the young Dragon’s eyes.

 

Mycroft thought his mother looked especially regal tonight. She too had transformed for the sake of space, a beautiful woman with raven hair clutched at the base of her neck. She wore a robe, teal green and silver, and it pooled at her waist to make a flowing skirt that matched Mycroft’s tunic. A glittering sapphire the size of a fist had been shaped into a clasp to hold her cloak at her throat.

“I don’t wanna go,” Sherlock groused, pouting. “Myc promised he’d take me to the Underpass.” That had been before the party had been scheduled, and before his mother had insisted that Mycroft not take Sherlock to the ledge at the top of the mountain where older Dragons started to learn how to fly. She fixed her eldest son with a brief glare, though her hands were still gentle as she fussed over Sherlock’s outfit.

“Be that as it may, we have responsibilities as leaders to our people, **_É_** ** _anbeah_**.” The nickname made Sherlock smile, though it was clear he was still grumpy. He settled for fidgeting with the ends of his cloak, picking at the soft fur lining.

 

Satisfied, their mother turned to Mycroft.

“The visitor that’s closest to your age will be Lord Gregarian. You’re to treat him politely, do you understand? He’s the son of the Fire Dragon’s chieftan, Marianna.”

Mycroft nodded dutifully. He tried not to think about how all of the other children were at least three years older than him. He wondered if they’d even take him seriously.

 

They exited together in a group, descending down the carved stairs towards the ball. They waited patiently as they were announced to the party that was already underway. Mycroft could see his father standing at the zenith of the room, greeting those who came in. Everyone was decked in their tribe’s respected colours, from silvers and blues, to reds and golds, to green and white. Dragons in fine gowns, tunics and jewels dazzled the eye, in assorted stages of transformation. Mycroft spotted a fine lady with her wings being admired by a flirty young man, his red clothes and golden eyes giving away his race. Down by the drinks, one of Mycroft’s aunts (who had trouble shifting for long) had settled into her true form, surrounded by Hatchlings. She seemed to be telling them stories. Above, teenagers were flying about, play-sparring and chasing each other’s tails. Their joy was infectious to watch, Mycroft itched to join them.

“Remember, you have a duty.” His mother’s words brought him back to earth. She gently tilted her chin towards a gaggle of Hatchlings on the ground, still in their Human forms. Mycroft felt a twist of nerves as he realized they were all dressed in finery like himself.

“M-mummy-” He wasn’t so sure he could do this. His father was still cool as a cucumber, but already Mycroft felt shaky. How did one possibly entertain so many others at _once._

 

His mother gently but firmly nudged him in the group’s direction. Her dark blue eyes were kind.

“Go on, my dear. Make some friends. I need to get Sherlock his violin for tonight’s performance.” Heartlessly fed to the wolves, Mycroft had no choice but to take a breath. He forced himself to calm the panicking thoughts in his mind. He hoped his cloak and his circlet weren’t crooked. The group was chatting amongst themselves, but soon eyes found his and they turned as one towards him. Though Mycroft tried to keep a formal exterior, a part of his brain insisted that they could smell his fear. They were all taller than him, and though there were only a few years between them, he felt suddenly small and childlike. He stood like an idiot, his voice leaving him stranded.

 

It might have gone more downhill from there, if one boy hadn’t stepped forward and spoken.

“Prince Mycroft, is it? We’re all delighted to meet you.” Mycroft found a hand being stretched in greeting towards him, the boy that owned it wearing a toothy smile. His hair was dark, as were his eyes, and it caught and offset the gold and red of his clothes nicely. The gold sash that went from his shoulder to hip had a Dragon on it rearing back on its hind legs. It spat fire, leaving no question to who it was that was greeting him. “Lord Gregarian Lestrade the second. But please, call me Greg. The first name’s my father’s.”

Dumbfounded, Mycroft could only take the boy’s hand. He found it warm, and somehow his nerves slowly began to unknot their way from his stomach. Despite the name, the boy before him had the smile of a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The older language is based on Irish Gaelic, with some variations just for the sake of storytelling/aesthetic*
> 
> Athrú = transform, Duine= Person, man:
> 
> Athrùduinne
> 
> éan beag= Little bird:
> 
> Éanbeah


	39. A Snake Amongst Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoo this chapter was a long time coming!
> 
> Thanks as always to my lovely beta, TPurr. You make my writing the legible story it is today!
> 
> To my fans, thank you as always for reading. I hope you enjoy.

 

Greg was not what Mycroft expected. Though what he expected exactly, the prince honestly couldn’t say. Perhaps someone rude? High-and mighty? Or perhaps just simply uninterested in the likes of someone younger than themselves. Instead he found a Dragon that was more down to earth than anything else. Despite clear signs of his upbringing, Greg was straightforward, quick to laugh and smile, and what was more a good listener. He introduced Mycroft to the gathering of children as if he’d known him their entire lives.

“Mycroft, these are the twin princesses Ming and Rei from the east, their friends Chun li, Kareem and Muhammed.” He pointed out two Dragons with identical faces frocked in green robes, along with a girl with long dark hair braided down her back and two boys with clothes that placed them as part of the princesses’ party. They all smiled, nodding and making some token of greeting. Mycroft smiled reflexively, bowing to the royal children with his mother’s words in his ear- _Behave._

“All of you are welcome in the North.” The greeting was standard, and the princesses seemed to look at him with amusement. They were older, and Mycroft got the distinct impression that they thought his stiff mannerisms were _cute,_ something he tried not to let rankle him. He settled for a smile and a nod, nothing that would give too much away. Thankfully, Greg seemed to notice his discomfort and came to the rescue.

“Your family’s hospitality’s been great. Honestly, dad was saying he hasn’t seen a party like this since my brother was Hatched.”

“It is truly an honour.” One of the twins agreed, either Rei or Ming. Her left side was more human than the other, her right eye gold and reptilian with scales trailing down her cheek. She turned to her twin. “My sister and I love the decorations.” She gestured to the satin tapestries and painting aligning gilded walls.

 

The conversation continued on the same inane threads, something that Mycroft could navigate easily enough. It was what he’d been raised to do, essentially. There was a soothing sort of nature to being in his human form, working on diplomacy, guiding the course of diplomacy so that no one felt left out or offended. He was good at it, modestly speaking. He hardly needed to think when he nudged the princesses towards a sake at the end of one massive banquet table, or suggested to Kareem and Chun li the best people to make small-talk with given their interests and goals. They were nobility themselves, after all, and seemed pleased with finding out more about the Northern Tribe.

Greg watched all of this while putting in a jibe here and there, and Mycroft found to his surprise that it actually helped him. Often, he came across as informative but cold. There was no trace of discomfort in anyone’s eyes as they thanked him for his help, and no one seemed put off by the blunt way in which he spoke to those older than himself. Greg acted as a balancer, keeping everything light and jovial. Soon it was just the two of them, something Mycroft found more pleasing than he should have. He tried not to let it show on his face, but he had the impression that he was doing a poor job. Greg _interested_ him, and he didn’t seem to shy away from the strange prince who liked looking human. There was only the fact that Mycroft found himself strangely tongue-tied when he looked at Greg, and the fact that he realised a moment after that they weren’t as alone as he’d thought.

 

A dark-haired boy that had been watching their interactions in silence in Greg’s shadow.

Mycroft hadn’t noticed the boy when he first came, but he had an idea of just who the child was, and so could explain the enchantment that melted away and revealed him. He looked to be about Sherlock’s age, though smaller. His eyes were dark, and restlessly flicked from face to face as he crowd-watched. He’d taken no interest in the proceedings before, but now he looked up at Mycroft seriously. The expression he wore was nearly bored, if Mycroft had to give it a name. He spoke, his voice flat and musing.

“Your face will freeze like that, if you keep that up.”

Greg’s face flushed a bit in embarrassment. He set a hand down on the young Dragon’s shoulder, glancing at Mycroft apologetically.

“James, you know what mom said about invisibility magic.” James Moriarty. Yes, Mycroft’s assumptions had been right. He kept his face blank, but in truth he was a little surprised that the fire lord chieftan had brought the adopted Hatchling. Rumour had it that Marianna had taken in the Hatchling after her best friend had taken ill and passed. The child had been adopted into the family as an illegitimate son effectively, though the boy seemed as composed as any true blooded Dragon. Mycroft found the child’s stare unsettling in truth, but he forced a smile on his face. It would not do to be rude to a guest.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, James.” He held out a hand to shake. The child did not take it, looking at his hand with thinly-veiled distaste. Instead he turned towards his adopted brother, his head tilting in consideration to the side.

“It’s Jim,” he answered “This party’s _boring,_ Greg. Your… _amusements_ are tiring as usual.” His speech was perfunctory, bleak even. For someone so young, it took Mycroft aback. Dark eyes seemed to assess him, stripping him of his layers of upbringing and revealing the socially awkward teen beneath.

 _“Go_ entertain yourself somewhere else, then,” Greg hissed, clearly upset with his brother’s attitude. Jim adopted a wide-eyed expression, mocking.

“Didn’t your mom tell you to watch over me? What will she _think?”_

“I don’t really _care,_ so long as you don’t cause trouble,” Greg muttered under his breath. He abruptly seemed to realise that Mycroft was still awkwardly listening to their spat. Straightening, he sighed. “Go on then, I won’t stop you.” He shooed Jim away, the boy seeming to skip with surprising speed into the crowd. He was gone in a flash, so that Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t used some kind of enchantment to make it so.

 

When he was sure that the boy was gone, Greg scratched the back of his neck and glanced at Mycroft ruefully.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Jim’s… a handful. I’m supposed to look after the little tyrant, but…” He shrugged, a gesture of defeat.

“Sherlock’s much the same way,” Mycroft assured, wanting to make Greg feel better. In truth, he had the private suspicion that Jim was several times worse, but he didn’t voice that thought aloud. Still Greg hummed doubtfully.

“I’d like to see that,” he huffed, shoving his hands into his dress pockets. Mycroft couldn’t help but notice how Greg’s eyes were illuminated by the goblets of sputtering gold fire placed in intervals throughout the room as he looked around. His gaze finally seemed to land on Mycroft, a small smile curving on his face. “I guess we have some time to kill, at least. What do Northern Dragons do for fun?”

 

That was the sort of question that Mycroft found himself balking a bit at. If he admitted to Greg that _he_ went to the expansive library for fun while most of the other Hatchlings went to the Underpass, he’d likely die from mortification. He quickly decided on the latter option.

“There’s a cliff called the Underpass. We use it to practice our flying.”

Greg’s smile was wide, his brown eyes sparking in excitement.

“Sounds cool!” he said. Mycroft silently huffed a sigh of relief. He didn’t expect the arm that wrapped around his shoulder, but wasn’t exactly arguing as Greg waved for him to lead the way. _He’s so warm._ Mycroft couldn’t help but think. Compared to his own natural chilled disposition, it was like leaning into a min-sun. He liked it more than he wanted to admit.

 

Mycroft lead them out past the ballroom, nodding at his mother in acknowledgement as he did. She saw Greg, a smile of her own giving him permission to leave. She turned towards the Dragon she’d been conversing with before, her earrings glittering with the turn of her head.

The two boys wandered down long hallways that Mycroft had known all of his life, pausing only here and there so that he could point out some painting or other and explain the history behind it. To his surprise, Greg seemed interested. He asked about a portrait of Mycroft’s great-grandfather, Rathbone of The Ice.

“He had iron gauntlets for his claws, his specialty was weapon-manifestation. The rumours were at one point he could level a mountain with one strike, but I think father just tells that story to scare Sherlock into going to bed.”

“It’d do it for me,” Greg chuckled, looking at the painting of the solemn-faced Dragon. It was true that in the dim light of the torches, Rathbone did look rather menacing. It wasn’t Mycroft’s favourite painting, but Greg seemed fascinated enough that he didn’t really mind.

“I have vague memories of him. He liked his wine, and his war stories. He fought in the thousand-year battle against Wintergar, the Ice-Chieftan.” The story was something that both young Dragons had no doubt heard, from before the four nations lived with one another, connected by the Heartsong. It was a time that neither of them could really conceptualize. Greg’s face sobered a little.

“Your brother’s the one who’s gonna sing the Heartsong tonight, right?”

Mycroft nodded, shifting uneasily. He didn’t know how to explain his own specialty in Magic, wasn’t sure if it would turn Greg off of him. Shifting as a whole came with a host of preconceived notions and expectations. Being the technical oldest of the royal line didn’t help his cause, either.

“My brother is… the more musically-inclined one,”he settled as an explanation. He hoped Greg would let it rest at that. Perhaps sensing his discomfort with the topic, Greg seemed to accept the answer.

“I’ve never heard it before,”he confessed “Like, I can _feel_ it like all other Dragons can, but I’ve never _heard_ it being performed. What’s it like?”

Mycroft thought of how he felt when Sherlock sang. Safe, came to mind. Connected. It felt like being hugged by his mother and father, except it was a feeling inside.

“Intense,” he murmured at last. “It’s intense. You can feel everyone in the castle beside you, _with_ you. You can feel their pain and their joy and their memories… most people cry, the first time.”

 

Greg flushed a little.

“Christ, I hope I don’t.” He laughed self-consciously “I’m a right-ugly crier.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Mycroft disagreed, hardly understanding why he said such an inane statement aloud. Greg blinked at him, nervously scratching the back of his neck. Mycroft resisted the urge to Shift into something that could blend into the floor and walls. He turned on his heel, hiding his flaming ears and cheeks as he gestured for Greg to follow.

“The Underpass is this way. If we hurry, Sherlock will sing right about when we make it up there.” Thankfully, Greg didn’t argue.

They came to a winding stone staircase, which Mycroft navigated in the dark by memory more than anything else. Greg was slow to follow, carefully feeling out each stone stepped that’d been warped from thousands of clawed feet walking along them before. Every few feet, a narrow window offered a breeze and a sliver of the outside world. The higher they climbed, the more stars one could see, burning in the cold night air. About halfway to the top, Mycroft realised that Greg was beginning to shiver.

_“Gods,_ how do you Northerners manage to live in this?” His breath was coming out in clouds. Mycroft turned to look at him, a little surprised. But of course, Fire-Dragons didn’t like the cold, but it wasn’t _that_ bad, surely?

“It’s only minus thirty,” he answered blankly, not understanding. Greg muttered something that sounded incredulous and rude under his breath. He clapped his hands together, and Mycroft saw golden sigils form in the air as abruptly the air around the prince burned. Greg’s eyes flickered red-gold a moment, an aura wrapping around him. He lowered his hands to his sides, sighing in evident relief as he rubbed feeling back into his shoulders.

“That’s better.”

“Thermokinesis. A common Fire-type specialty.” Still, the control required to warm one’s body without accidentally boiling the organs or blood was skillful, _especially_ while maintaining a shift in Human form. Greg smiled crookedly, shrugging Mycroft’s interest off casually.

“Means I can actually make it to this damn cliff without freezing my wings off.” He gestured for Mycroft to continue. He did, after taking a moment to feel the warmth that he wouldn’t be able to quite touch without burning himself at the small of his back.

 

Finally, they made it, the wind now whipping at Mycroft’s hair and clothes, as if tugging him towards the sheer drop at the head of the tower. He closed his eyes a moment to relish in the cold, the pins and needles it left even in _his_ skin.

He felt rather than saw Greg at his side, the Dragon’s heat a boiler compared to the weather around them. It was snowing, a light flurry that left white flakes in Mycroft’s hair and eyelashes. He didn’t want to look at Greg, worried what he might see. Instead he settled for staring out from on top of the mountain, gazing into the dark beyond that at night seemed to stretch endlessly. Though Mycroft couldn’t seem to find the right words, Greg didn’t seem to mind. His brown eyes were wide as he took in the view, his breathing picking up a notch as together they approached the edge of the cliff, peering down into the yawning abyss.

 _“Gods,”_ he whistled low, the sound muted by the wind. “This is…This…” He trailed off, apparently unable to articulate much past swear words and amazement. Greg looked at Mycroft, his cheeks flushed in wonder. “You _live_ here? Like, _actually_ live with a view like this?”

“W-where do _you_ live?” Mycroft was caught off guard by the question. Was it really so _grand?_

“I live by a dormant volcano; the Humans call it _Vesuvius_ or something. It’s really, _really_ nothing compared to this.”

 

Greg inhaled deeply, coughing the next instant as the cold air assaulted his lungs despite his Magic. Mycroft stepped forward, ignoring how the Dragon’s skin burn his own pink as he patted his back.

“You’ll be more comfortable if you Shift,” he advised, hating himself as he admitted it. Not many could really sustain their Human form as well as he could, especially not while under stress. Too far into it, and a Dragon could be harmed like a Human by stressors. Too little, and parts of the Dragon would show through. Still, Greg’s Human form was pretty, it made sense his Dragon one would too.

Greg blinked through tears of pain, rubbing his chest and wincing. His eyes flickered from slit-pupiled to liquid brown, He groaned.

“How’re you managing this? Your Magic reserves must be at a crazy level.”

“I’m-” Mycroft broke off, hesitating. Not many viewed his abilities highly. He kept his silence as Greg began to shed his Human form, his body changing and growing with rapid speed. A blast of energy in the form of heat came with the transformation, forcing Mycroft to squint and move back a half-pace. 

 

When he looked again, Mycroft was gazing at a handsome young Fire Dragon, gold and red scales streaked with hints of silver. Greg stood at the height of a fully grown work-horse, his wings stretching lazily. His Magic roped around him like bands of sunlight.

The voice that spoke in Mycroft’s mind was still recognisable.

****

**_That feels so much better._ **

 

Greg lashed his tail playfully, bowing at Mycroft in a move for play. His gold-red eyes were bright, mischievous.

 

**_Well? You gonna Shift, dummy? Night’s not gonna wait._ **

****

Mycroft had been frozen, but now he felt nervous jitters take hold. His Shifting skills were fluid, masterful, even. It’d be no great feat to guess what he _was_ if he changed in front of Greg. He fidgeted in place, his all-too-perfect human hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Greg let out a rumbling, wordless inquiry after a beat too long of hesitation. His massive tail twitched to curl around Mycroft in question.

 

**_Mycroft? What’s wrong?_ **

****

He opened his mouth to lie, to make up any story that would let him back out of the harebrained scheme that had trapped him in this situation. But… Greg was looking at him with an expression that Mycroft could read all too easily: Worry. He barely knew him, and yet Greg already cared enough to pick up on the fact that something was wrong. Mycroft didn’t _want_ to lie to him, not when he’d been so open, so _caring_ all of tonight. He was tired of _hiding_ this part of himself, of pretending to be a Dragon with a normal Specialty. Something warm rose up inside of Mycroft, dangerously close to being tears. He blinked them away, furious at the emotion. His father’s voice warning him to never reveal his gift to others was drowned out by Greg’s presence, suddenly coming forward until the Dragon’s snout nearly touched Mycroft’s forehead. Hot breath washed over his face, Greg’s voice echoing in his head.

 

**_Are you ok?_ **

****

“Y-yes,” Mycroft answered aloud, his eyes slipping shut. _Please don’t hate me._ The voice inside of himself whispered. He took a deep, steadying breath, opening his eyes to stare determinedly up at Greg. When he spoke again, his voice was stronger. “Just. Please don’t be afraid.” Mycroft reached inside of himself, shedding the Human form he wore like he might a silk robe. He began to Change, but not into a Dragon, not right away. If he was doing this, he was letting it happen organically, all out so that Greg knew what kind of creature he was. He transformed rapidly before Greg’s eyes, Shifting form into a silver-feathered bird, melting into a snake, a wildcat, pushing the fur out until the wildcat grew and changed into a polar bear. Mycroft kept going, letting the fur melt away, growing and growing until he was a creature that didn’t exist, a creature of his own design made of stone and limbs and crystal eyes that glowed all over his skin. He shed that form like he was dissolving, finally settling into his Dragon-form with an ease he hadn’t felt in years. He was a Northern Dragon, pale blue edging on anxious green and awaiting approval.

 

Greg had gone still, so still that Mycroft wondered if he’d been the one to turn to stone. The Dragon stared at him, the slits of his gold-red eyes wide. Scared but defiant, Mycroft slowly raised his chin. He forced the fear down, until the colour of his scales dulled to wintery blue, until he felt as if he’d constructed a wall of ice around his heart. Inside he was cold and terrified, but outside he kept his voice calm.

“I’m sorry if I’ve frightened you, or if I’m not what you expected. But I felt like it would be best if I showed you before you heard it from someone in court.”

“You’re…”

“A Shape-Changer, yes. It’s my Specialty.” He’d never said it aloud before, come to think of it. At least, not to a stranger.

Greg seemed to shake his head, refocusing. He moved back a half-step, and Mycroft’s traitorous chest felt a pang of loss. It looked like their short friendship was already drawing to a close.  “I understand if you want to leave. I know it’s unsightly. I can… I’ll take you back to the Ball room.”

 _“Mycroft,”_ Greg murmured. Mycroft paused. He dared a look up into the other Dragon’s eyes. Greg’s gaze was kind as he tentatively came closer, until heat and cold mingled so that between them was a space that was no extremity, just warmth. Mycroft found it all too close and not enough at once. He swallowed back the lump in his throat. Greg’s voice was soft. “I don’t want to leave.”

 

It was all Mycroft wanted to hear, but he could pick out the _but_ behind it. He tried not to get his hopes up.

“But?”

Greg seemed to sigh. He looked at Mycroft carefully before replying.

“I’m going to admit, I had ulterior motives for meeting you.” Mycroft looked at him in confusion. Ulterior motives? Greg was quick to explain. “Your mother… she told you to interact with me I take it?” Mycroft nodded, the pieces rapidly clicking together even as Greg spoke. He felt surprise and shock as it was suddenly made clear.

“The fire tribe and the Northern haven’t had an arranged marriage together in decades, not since Princess Eilonwy and King Marseus.”

“The Fire and Ice Duo, yes.” Greg supplied. His face darkened a little as he spoke. “My father told me his plans and I was furious. I told him I couldn’t marry someone I’d never met. He and your mother talked, deciding to arrange a meeting at the Star Ball. I came with the intent to find something to hate you for, but…” He trailed off. Mycroft felt a lead weight in his stomach drop.

“You found it, then. A Shape-Changer for a Mate would be a cruel Bonding.”

 _“No.”_ Greg huffed in annoyance, glaring at Mycroft with sudden heat. “That’s not the problem. The _problem_ is I damn-well _like_ you, Mycroft!”

 

Mycroft blinked in surprise. _Oh._ Well that was unexpected. He felt rather stupid, now.

“I like you too,” he blurted out, unable to come up with something more eloquent. Greg groaned, turning to pace irritably at the edge of the cliff-face. His voice was a growl of irritation.

“The smug bastard’s going to be crowing for _weeks_ about this. I _swore_ I’d hate you.”

 

Mycroft was still a little bit dazed, enough that he didn’t really take offence to the admittance that Greg had planned to hate him from the start. He was still drowning in relief at the fact that he wasn’t actually losing a friend. Well, potentially _more_ than a friend, now. That was a whole other issue that he’d have words with his mother about when given the chance. For now, Mycroft settled for standing awkwardly like an idiot until Greg finally seemed to get a hold of himself. The Dragon finally did, whirling around and spreading his wings challengingly.

“Fly with me,” he demanded. Mycroft had no issue, he let Greg launch himself into the sky, plunging into the dark with a graceful push off the cliff. He then took off himself, the ice-cold air filling the sails of his wings and making him weightless.

 

They danced around each other in the air, chasing and playing games of tag that only small Hatchlings bothered to indulge in. Each touch for Mycroft was a lick of fire, each nudge for Greg a shock of ice. Neither seemed to care too much, settling for fleeting brushes against one another amidst the snow and ice. Somewhere along the way, Mycroft felt a lilting hum in his bones. He knew the sound well. He fell into the sound, letting himself be carried by the sound of the Heartsong tuning the mountain and all that lived around it together.

 

He felt the moment that Greg fell into it, felt the strange but warm presence in his own consciousness. Mycroft felt his mother and father, his brother and all those still dancing in the Star Ball. A red and gold tail brushed his own, Greg letting him know that he felt it too. They drew closer together, hearing in each other’s thoughts the same bell-note of companionship. They were opposite magnets, drawn to each other even as Mycroft was sure he’d burn up and Greg was sure he’d turn to ice. The storm around them made it hard to see, but both of them could find each other with ease. Mycroft realised what it was the moment one clawed paw met the other, the two of them folding their wings in a breathless, wondrous fall towards the earth that only stopped a moment before it would have been too late to fly.

To think that his Bonded, would be his betrothed, it seemed like a cosmic joke.

 

**_I like to think destiny._ **

The amused voice jolted Mycroft out of his thoughts. He reluctantly pulled away, twisting his serpentine body up towards the cliff.

_Sentimental._ He thought.

****

**_Hope._** Greg silently replied. He chased after Mycroft, the two of them drifting up towards the top of the northern mountain together.

 

****

Occupied as they had been with each other, neither had been at the party when the Human had wandered up to the castle’s front doors. What Mycroft heard was through word of mouth, his parents occupied as they were with the injured, half-frozen guest.

“He called himself Charles Magnussen, and he says he’s from a small village beyond the foothill paths.” Mycroft listened to Greg as he sat in one of the plush chairs of the library, reading by the fire. Greg had gotten the information from his dad, and his brows had been in a pensive knot ever since. “He fainted at the doorway from exposure, the healers are guessing. Your parents are deciding whether or not to let him go in the morning.” The unspoken hovered in the air. Man was a beast the Dragons had so far been unwilling to engage. They were unpredictable, often violent, and easy to frighten.

 

Privately, Mycroft thought that the man currently sleeping in one of the many guest rooms was a ticking time bomb waiting to happen. He was also aware that Greg had a different opinion.

“This might be what Dragons need. My people have been trapped in a volcano for centuries because of our fear of Humans, when we have no real evidence of their nature.”

“They kill their own kind,” Mycroft pointed out. Greg scowled a little staring at the fire as he thought.

“So do _we._ Or we did in the past, before the Heartsong.” Mycroft didn’t respond right away. For his people, the situation was different. They were not near any large cities or populations, the mountain air too thin for Humans to breathe for long amounts of time. That wasn’t even mentioning the cold or the snow. The mountain was large, and their Hatchlings were few and far in between. He and Sherlock had been a blessing, two children in the span of only nine years. Other tribes had to live alongside Humans, struggling to keep to themselves.

Greg sat back in the chair, rubbing at his face tiredly. The moon outside made Mycroft guess that dawn was well on its way.

“I just don’t think we can throw away this kind of chance,” Greg murmured. “For my mother, it has the potential to be a real solution. I can’t see her just allowing us to turn it away.”

 

Mycroft couldn’t see it either. When it came down to it, his father was a fair creature by nature. He wouldn’t forbid contact with an entire other species, not if even one required his help. It was an unfortunate weakness of his, one that his mother often managed to curb. Even so, he didn’t think she could do much in this situation. Not with the other tribes also arguing for or against the decision.

“My parents will likely call for Council with your parents and the king and Queens of the east. They’ll have reached a conclusion by dawn.” Greg hummed, a wordless noise of agreement. Mycroft closed the book he’d been reading without really taking in, his hands smoothing over the cover. He flicked a shy gaze over towards Greg. “I need to tuck Sherlock in, he still sleeps in the rookery. I’ll see you later?”

Greg smiled, the expression softening the look of thought on his face. Mycroft was alarmed at how much he was beginning to grow attached to that smile. So _this_ was what an _**Ochelia**_ was.  Something that could turn into so much more if given time to grow.

“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised, taking Mycroft’s hand and giving it a small squeeze. Greg stood from his chair, making his way to the hall.

 

Mycroft watched him leave, the fire flickering as a cold wind blew in from the open window. It sent the room sputtering into inconsistent golds and blues, casting everything into shadow. He felt the warm feeling douse, leaving him with only a feeling of unease writhing in the pit of his stomach. He felt the heaviness of exhaustion settle in his bones, deep and pulling. Against his will, Mycroft’s eyes began to slip closed. He curled closer to the edge of the chair near the fire, shivering in spite of himself. The library seemed to hunch down around him, protecting him from something.

What? Even he didn’t know.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hoarding Mode](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3673965) by [nosetothewind94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosetothewind94/pseuds/nosetothewind94)




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